


Reconciliation

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Medical/Healing, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-30
Updated: 2007-04-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 124,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Dwimordene. Justice is one matter, forgiveness another. In the wake of an infamous failure of fellowship, the Swan Knights and esquires of Dol Amroth struggle with the messy business of achieving both. Story in the "Best-loved Sons" cycle. Complete.</p><p>Features Imrahil, Andrahar, Peloren, Elethil, and numerous other OCs borrowed from Isabeau or created at need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, many thanks to Altariel and Isabeau for 1) letting me play in their Tolkien sandbox, and 2) their patient betaing of multiple chapter drafts. 
> 
> This story takes as its starting point the events of "Kin-strife." But it is precisely the contrast between the relationship of Andrahar and Peloren in "Kin-strife" and their relationship in "Noble Jewel" that made me wonder: just how did these two ever become friends and colleagues after Peloren helped Valyon beat Andrahar bloody in an ugly, racist attack? 
> 
> Here follows my attempt at an answer.
> 
>  
> 
> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at HASA, which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the HASA collection profile.

**Summer Solstice 2975**  
  
The castle courtyard was bright with midmorning sunshine, and one could already feel the day's heat drawing on. Even Dol Amroth had its scorching summer days, though with luck, the wind would pick up in the afternoon. The two young men in the uniforms of Dol Amroth's infantry certainly hoped so, for though they had the morning free, they would take their turn on guard duty at noon before being let off to join their new company.   
  
Or rather, rejoin it. Peloren and Elethil each had a small trunk—esquires were not permitted much in the way of worldly possessions, at least not while they stayed in what was affectionately called the "Fledglings' Wing"—and knowing they would have no time before the evening ceremony, had decided they ought to take advantage of their free time to settle in. They had asked and received permission to do so from Armsmaster Ornendil and from Captain Valandil the morning before, and by that evening, word had been sent that they were to present themselves before noon the next day to the Armsmaster for their new room assignments.  
  
"Good luck, lads," Sergeant Ambraith had said, when they had been about to leave. The sergeant of the Fifth Company of Dol Amroth's infantry had appeared in their barracks unexpectedly, allegedly to make a spot inspection.   
  
"The Valar only know what some lads get up to on summer holidays—the Valar and I, that is," he had amended, his eyes—one blue, one brown, and both unsettlingly intense—sweeping the room. And between the Valar and Ambraith, one might be wiser to risk the Valar's wrath, for the Valar were a more remote court. Ambraith, whose uncanny ability to spot trouble brewing had undoubtedly led to their being assigned to the Fifth Company, had watched Peloren and Elethil like a hawk ever since their arrival. He had been an unrelentingly demanding taskmaster, and only memory of Ornendil's tender mercies and a determination that the Prince's clemency should not be for nothing had enabled them to bear up to it.   
  
And they had—for one whole year, they had endured the barracks and the discipline of the infantry companies, and in point of fact, had grown to appreciate the footmen far more than they might have otherwise. Ambraith had had much to do with that newfound appreciation, to say nothing of the discipline, and so Peloren and Elethil had risen and saluted, thanking him politely. Those odd eyes had settled then upon the two of them as they had straightened, and the sergeant had grunted.   
  
"The Swan Knights always take a few from among our lads; I don't grudge it, so long as the lads in question remember where they came from," he said at length, giving them each a meaningful look. "However you got here, you're Fifth Company footmen now, so be sure you do us proud."   
  
"Aye, sergeant!" they had chorused, and he had waved them away then.   
  
Now, the two of them made their way across the courtyard and into the keep. None stopped them as they made a turn and headed for the Fledglings' Wing. No one seemed to be about.  
  
"I suppose they are all gone to see the fair," Elethil said.  
  
"Likely so," Peloren replied.   
  
"I hope the Armsmaster hadn't planned anything," Elethil continued, anxiously.  
  
Peloren sighed. "Let's just hurry, Elya," he murmured, lengthening his stride as he took the corner that led down to the Armsmaster's office and the esquires' quarters beyond.   
  
As promised, the Armsmaster was in, and in uniform, though it was not dress livery, thankfully. Still, he was no less imposing than either of them remembered as he rose and stood gazing at them measuringly.   
  
"Be seated," he said, after a moment, indicating the chairs before his desk. They set their trunks aside and did as they were bidden. Ornendil remained standing, however. "Before I send you to your quarters, I want a private word with you."   
  
Elethil and Peloren glanced at each other, then back at Ornendil, and Peloren nodded. They had rather expected this. Not that Peloren had been looking for the information, precisely, but so far as he knew, no one had ever been expelled from the Swan Knights and made a return. Ever. Not since the company had been created. Which put them all, including the Armsmaster, in a rather singular situation.   
  
 _No more singular than having one of the Haradrim wear the white belt,_  he reminded himself, and then sighed inwardly. At least Andrahar had already completed his training and would not be sharing close quarters with them. Rumor had it he had been sent south, the Valar knew where, with Lord Ecthelion's outland Captain Thorongil, and though Peloren mistrusted rumor, he could at least count upon being spared Andrahar's presence in Dol Amroth. But ruminations upon absent Haradrim could wait, for the Armsmaster had begun speaking.  
  
"As you know, new esquires are inducted twice a year into the ranks, at Summer Solstice and at Yule. After some discussion, it has been decided that your names will be read off with the other candidates, and you will take your seats at the esquires' tables alongside them in the hall this evening. This should make it clear to all that you are a part of this company once more and in full. However," Ornendil continued, "since you are most recently come from the foot, that is how you will be named. When you finish your training a year from now and assuming you pass the trials, then you will be recognized by the titles you were born to, but not before then. Is this clear?"  
  
In other words, they had been taken back, but the consequences of last year's folly would not simply be erased. Nor was there anything they could do about it, and so they simply nodded, and made the obligatory reply: "Yes, sir."   
  
"Good. Now, in terms of more substantial matters than such formalities," Ornendil continued, his eyes narrowing as he regarded them. "I have spoken with the Captain and His Highness, and both stand firm in this: you have been given a second chance, which is unusual. There will not be a third. You will live by the code, or you will leave. Take one step beyond it, and that is the end. Come up too hard against it, and you will be sent home. No pranks. No mischief. You had better be bleeding or shut up in your room if curses or the like are coming from your lips. I expect you both to be a model of courtesy to your brothers—all of them, no matter what the circumstances. Do you understand this?"  
  
The Armsmaster's light emphasis on the word 'brothers' could not be mistaken, and so they said again, "Yes, sir."  
  
"If this is not acceptable to you, then I advise you to say so now, before you are bound by any oaths," Ornendil warned.   
  
At this, Elethil shot Peloren an anxious look— _Say something!_  he pleaded silently, and Peloren, who knew his friend suffered from his own perceived lack of eloquence, reached and laid a hand on the arm of his chair briefly, ere he said: "If I may speak, Armsmaster?"   
  
Ornendil raised a brow, but he gestured gracefully for him to do so. "Please."  
  
"Last summer, we were offered the chance to spend a year with the foot, in order to return later to the Swan Knights to try to complete our training. We accepted, for we desired above all to serve as knights. We know it will not be easy to prove ourselves—that it will be harder than it ever was before—but we are both determined that we shall, for our desire has not changed," Peloren said firmly, pausing a moment before he finished: "As knights, we would be bound to lay down our lives at our lord's command; surely, then, we shall not hesitate to be bound in lesser matters, sir."  
  
The Armsmaster grunted, but Peloren thought he seemed pleased by this speech. "Very well, gentlemen. Peloren, you have been given the fifth room on the east side of the hall; Elethil, you will take the ninth, also on the east side. Go stow your gear and I shall leave you to your business until this evening."  
  
They rose, bowed politely and murmured their thanks, then turned to retrieve their trunks. As they were about to leave, Ornendil called after them, "Gentlemen." Peloren and Elethil paused in the doorway, and despite his recent bold words, Peloren felt anxiety sweep through him.  _What more is there to say?_  he wondered. Ornendil merely eyed the pair of them, smiled slightly, and said:   
  
"Welcome back."  
  


* * *

  
  
They did as they were commanded. Peloren found his new room very little different from his old one: an esquire's narrow cot stood in one corner, a wash stand, bowl, and pitcher nigh at hand in the other, with a small mirror on the wall above. There was one chair and a small, plain writing desk with ink and pens aplenty stocked against need; against the desk, a small shelf for books sat. Finally, there was a small clothespress next to the door. Opening it, Peloren found someone had already placed the two uniforms allotted to esquires. The silver swan winked at him in the late light of the morning, and he laid a hesitant hand upon the folds of blue fabric, letting his fingertips brush the bold-blazoned emblem. Only for a moment, and then he shook himself and quickly began moving his spare shirts and other articles of clothing into the appropriate drawers.   
  
Once he had finished with that chore, he deposited his comb and one or two other toiletries on the washstand. Then he returned to withdraw a small number of books from the trunk, which he began setting in the bookshelf. Mostly they were books of tactics and strategy, but there was a treatise on siege engines and the mathematical formulae that went with them, and which every esquire was supposed to read, memorize, and understand. There was one well-thumbed book devoted to the care and training of horses, and a small volume of Haradric poetry he had been working on in an effort to satisfy the demand that all knights should be able to read and write in two languages.   
  
In this last item were stuffed a handful of letters from his family, which Peloren retrieved and replaced in the trunk. While he was forbidden any pranks or mischief, on pain of final exile, that did not mean others were so bound, and although he could justly complain to the Armsmaster or any of the sergeants of someone stealing such private correspondence or disturbing it, such complaints would hardly change the fact that it had been read. At least he could lock the trunk, whereas doors and clothespresses were another matter.   
  
Once he had finished disposing of his few possessions, he glanced down at himself, at the tabard he wore: blue and white checks, with but a small, embroidered swan crest that sat like a badge on his left breast. One more shift, and he would put away the uniform of a footman for the last time, for whether he succeeded or failed in the coming two years, he would not serve with the Dol Amroth infantry again. His father had already declared, in no uncertain terms, that if he should not earn his white belt, he would come home and ride with Anfalas' levies, and Peloren winced at the memory of that Yuletide... 'conversation.' Time had not blunted his father's wrath appreciably, it seemed, and Peloren had caught the brunt of it almost immediately upon his return.  
  
"You will come home if you do not succeed. For if you fail because of this stray Southron, I shall not waste any further training on you. For Valar's sake, Peloren, why did you not leave well enough alone?" his father had demanded, and given him a smack to the back of the head in his disgust, as he had done when Peloren had been a boy. It had been a long, unhappy holiday back at his family's holdings in Anfalas; by comparison, the barracks at Dol Amroth and Sergeant Ambraith's iron-fisted discipline had been a haven he had gladly returned to.  
  
But now he was leaving that relative sanctuary for the chance to return to the good graces not only of his father, but of his fellows, to redeem his name among the Swan Knights.  _If they shall let me,_  he thought, and his brow creased with worry. Peloren was not so naïve as to think that all was forgiven. He knew as well as anyone the ways of putting someone in his place without attracting the opprobrium of officers and sergeants.   
  
For that matter, he knew well that officers and sergeants to some degree were complicit in such informal ways of disciplining an errant soul—if they did not care to bring a man to the attention of the official machinery of justice within the body of knights, if they felt such would be more detrimental than helpful, they had only to let their displeasure be known and the esquires would follow their superiors in shunning the offender until wrongs were righted. And as for the form of that shunning… well, it was generally not as simple as merely ignoring the offender. Or as pacific.   
  
The question was whether memory of his participation in Valyon's plot would arouse wrath or some lesser emotion; whether in any case that feeling, whatever it might be, had run off somewhat in their absence. Peloren did not imagine that the officers had forgotten—Ornendil had made it clear enough that he and Elethil would be watched carefully, and no doubt tested especially. How would the other esquires react to this?  _It is not as if Andrahar is so well-beloved, after all,_ he thought, and wondered how he felt about that. It was a question he had not been able to answer in all the time he had spent reflecting on the affair; perhaps he did not wish to, fearful of what the answer might be...  
  
 _Enough of this!_  he admonished himself, with a shake of his head.  _You are due on rotation—it would hardly do to be late for your final shift._  Stuffing the key to his trunk into his pocket, he went to collect Elethil, and the two of them made for their posts in the corridors leading up to the Great Hall.   
  
Nevertheless, for all that he tried to put his worries aside, he found he could not keep his thoughts from wandering over the next few hours, and from Elethil's distracted expression, it seemed likely his friend also suffered from restless wondering. By the time they saluted their replacements and went to change into their esquire uniforms, Peloren's palms were sweaty and not just from the heat.   
  
"Do you think it will be long before matters settle?" Elethil asked in an undertone, as the two of them, freshly scrubbed and clad in their livery as tradition demanded of those who had it, made their way to the Great Hall, which had filled with guests over the past hour.   
  
"I do not know," Peloren replied, then shrugged. "Probably." Elethil grunted, and they spoke no more as they reached the hall and paused on the threshold, hesitating to join the merry-makers. However, even as they stood there, gazing uncertainly about, Ornendil, who, much to their surprise, was chatting quietly with Farodel, the company commander of the Fifth Company, spotted them.   
  
"Peloren, Elethil," he beckoned to them, and they (somewhat reluctantly) approached. "'Tis good you arrived a little early. It appears you have a choice. Commander Farodel and some of the officers of the Fifth Company were invited to join us, and you may, if you like, sit with them until you are placed with the esquires. But you may also wish to sit with the representatives that the Lord of Anfalas sent, since he is your liegelord."  
  
 _Representatives?_  Peloren followed Ornendil's glance, and saw a pair of men in Anfalas' livery some ways up the hall, both of them seeming rather subdued. That Golasgil's father had been wroth with Adrahil's decision to turn his son out of the Swan Knights had come as no surprise, but if he appeared still unwilling to forgive the 'slight' to his house, he was apparently wise enough not to wholly refuse the Prince's invitation. Undoubtedly, Peloren thought, if they chose to stand by their liegelord's men, neither he nor Elethil need fear that any opprobrium for their past actions would taint the dinner-time conversation, for Anfalas had been quick to defend his son's actions and demand Andrahar's dismissal as well. Still...  
  
"If Commander Farodel is not adverse, I think I would like to stay with the Fifth Company for the time being," Peloren said, and Elethil nodded his agreement.   
  
"I am not adverse," Farodel replied, seeming amused. "Join us, please. Ornendil, perhaps we could speak later of a joint exercise...?"  
  
"Tomorrow afternoon?"   
  
"That would be agreeable. Your office or mine?"  
  
"Yours is somewhat closer to the field, and as you know, it is always a busy first week with new esquires," Ornendil replied. Farodel chuckled. Apparently, he did know, and Peloren sighed inwardly in anticipation of the painful exhaustion the next several days promised to bring.   
  
Just then, however Adrahil entered, with Princess Olwen on his arm, and discussion ceased as all rose in the presence of their lord and lady. Pressing Farodel's arm, Ornendil made a hasty retreat to his own place, while Farodel touched Peloren's shoulder, and Elethil's, silently urging them to take their places at the table.   
  
The Midsummer festival had not the solemnity of Yuletide, but it had its own order, which included the welcoming of guests. Nor was it simply a general speech the Prince was expected to give, but he and his lady went to each of the tables and stood at its head, there to recite the Canticle of the Sun in Yavanna's honor before bidding the occupants of the table to seat themselves and be welcome. When the Prince and Princess came to the table where the Fifth Company's men stood, Peloren bowed his head, as did all others, mouthing the familiar words to the short poem. When it was done, he looked up, just in time for Adrahil to say:  
  
"In Harad, there is a tradition of holding every fifth year to be the year of wisdom—that is, as they say, the final element at the center of the worldly four, and for all our differences, it seems to me a goodly custom. So on this day, the very middle and navel of the fifth year of this decade, may Yavanna grant that the seeds of wisdom grow in each and all of us." The Prince paused, and his grey eyes swept over the faces of his guests. Peloren felt his breath catch, for it seemed to him that Adrahil's gaze lingered somewhat upon him and Elethil, ere he smiled, and said, "Be welcome in our home, gentlemen. Please, be seated."  
  
"Quoting Haradric customs? That was not an accident!" Elethil leaned close to whisper, and Peloren shook his head minutely as Adrahil and Olwen at last came to the high table and welcomed their final guests, ere the servitors appeared and began laying out supper.   
  
The royal house of Dol Amroth was renowned for the generosity of its tables, and this year did honor to that reputation. Despite a mounting nervousness, Peloren set to with a will on the exquisite and plentiful fare, he and Elethil both having the healthy appetites of active young men. The flow of conversation was pleasant, and stayed away from Swan Knights and any potentially embarrassing topics, for which the two soon-to-be esquires were grateful.   
  
But eventually, as both hunger and fancy were sated, a bell rang, and Adrahil rose again, Ornendil and Valandil following suit.  
  
"My lords and ladies," the Prince announced, as head turned toward him, "every year at this time, it is our very great pleasure and honor to make known to you the names of those who will undertake to become Swan Knights in the service of this kingdom. It is our hope that all those who stand before us today shall come eventually to attain the high station for which they aim, and uphold the long tradition of that company to safeguard Gondor's people in the trying times of strife and fear. But before they can take up that task, they have a long journey to make.   
  
"Tonight, however," the Prince said, and flashed one of his brilliant smiles, "they will be asked to take but the first step: or rather, the first ten, so that they may join the ranks of their fellow esquires." Chuckles greeted this bit of wordplay, but Peloren swallowed hard against the sudden knot in his stomach, and Elethil's hands were white-knuckled as he clasped them in his lap. "Armsmaster?"  
  
So it began: Ornendil produced a list from his scrip and began reading names. "Lord Angbor of Lamedon." With each name, the lad called forth would rise and make his way to stand before Valandil, who would present him then to the Prince.   
  
"Lord Baragil of Morthond." Peloren watched as each young man knelt in turn and swore the oath that would bind him to obedience for the duration of his training.   
  
"Lord Hengrist of Pinnath Gelin." Adrahil would raise him up then, kiss him on either cheek, and welcome him to the company before handing him off to Valandil once more, who would direct him to the table where the other esquires sat already, waiting to greet their new peers.   
  
The list went on for a bit before "lord" dropped out of the litany and men from various infantry companies began to be called: men of no breeding, but whose courage and skill, and often, their proven battle-hardiness, were such as to bring them to the attention of the Swan Knights.   
  
"Aldan of Dol Amroth, of the Third Company." Older by several years, often, than their noble brother-esquires, they nevertheless seemed more hesitant, as if all such rituals and attention were foreign to them—which, undoubtedly, they were.   
  
"Elethil of Caldor, of the Fifth Company." Beside him, his friend rose and made his way forward, to all outward appearances the picture of composure in that moment. He knelt to Adrahil, swore his oath, was raised up, and received. Nothing wanting in that greeting, nor anything more to it than that: matter-of-fact, courteous, and without any fuss.  _It is not so bad then,_  Peloren thought, and then drew a deep breath, for he was next.  
  
"Peloren of Hathwyn, of the Fifth Company." Striving to match Elethil for calm, he rose and wove through the tables until he stood before Valandil, who inclined his head politely and laid a hand on his shoulder as he turned slightly towards Adrahil.   
  
"Prince Adrahil, may I present Peloren of Hathwyn?"   
  
"My prince," Peloren murmured, and knelt.   
  
"Are you prepared to renounce your allegiance to your lord, and to swear obedience to me and to the officers of my company, until such time as you have completed your training, Peloren?" Adrahil asked, and as he had three years ago, Peloren replied:  
  
"I am."  
  
"Very good. Then repeat after me..."  
  
And Peloren obeyed, reciting the oath he had taken before: "I, Peloren son of Palavir, hereby bind myself to obey the commands of the Prince of Dol Amroth, and of all his company, above all other bonds of loyalty. The code of a knight of Dol Amroth I hold now to rule me, and I shall strive to be worthy of it, that I may one day be granted to call it my own."  
  
Hands grasped his shoulders, braced him as he rose, and Adrahil and he exchanged the traditional kiss of lord and bondsman. But the Prince held him close a moment longer, long enough to whisper in his ear: "Well done, lad. Welcome home."  
  
Then he was released and Valandil sent him to join the others. He of course sought out a seat near Elethil immediately, staring down at the table for a long moment ere he raised his eyes to gaze at the faces of the esquires, his brothers once more. Most of those who had entered with him had already gone on to claim their white belts, though there were a few who had been deemed promising enough to grant another year of study despite having been judged unready to face the final tests. But there were other familiar faces: all the lads who had come in a year or two behind him remained (save for a few, victims of the rare but inevitable training accident or else who had decided they could not complete the training).   
  
A few smiles greeted him, and neighbors offered nods. But he could feel the discomfort, and there were several faces whose closed expression gave no sign of their feelings toward him, save that no one would be so cautious who had not something to hide.   
  
The knot in his stomach tightened, and he glanced at Elethil, who met his eyes, and the thought passed clearly between them:   
  
 _It is going to be a long year._  
  


* * *

  
  
To be continued...


	2. Black Swans

That that premonition was correct was demonstrated graphically the very next day.   
  
Peloren jerked awake as his door was flung open by one of the sergeants, who held up a lantern and snapped, "Out of bed, laddie, the day is wasting and you're wanted on the fields. Wear something the stables won't ruin.  _Move!_ "   
  
All along the hall, he could hear similar announcements, and the sounds of sleepy confusion from the newest esquires. Those who had passed through their first year knew to expect it, yet it was somehow never less than unpleasant to be roused out of a sound sleep by the company sergeants, none of whom seemed in the least dismayed by the fact that it was still dark outside.   
  
Peloren groaned as he dragged himself from beneath the covers, fumbled for a match, and lit the candle in the wall sconce near his bed.  _I hate this tradition,_  he thought, even as he hurried to his clothespress and snatched the oldest shirt and pair of trousers he owned. As quickly as he could, he stripped out of his nightshirt and dressed, taking care to fold the shirt and replace it neatly in a drawer. Then he went to the washstand, splashed water on his face, ran a comb once through his hair to get the worst of the tangles under control, and hurriedly straightened the covers of his bed. No matter how rushed the morning call was, there was never an excuse for leaving one's room a mess—the sergeants who would be going through the wing while they were away would see to it that that lesson was learned swiftly.   
  
With a last wistful look at his now nicely-made bed, Peloren slipped out into the hall to join the stream of other tired esquires as they obediently made their way down to the fields.   
  
"Pel!" Elethil squeezed past two of their fellows to fall in beside him.  
  
"Good morning?" Peloren muttered, and his friend snorted.  
  
"Not yet," Elethil murmured, running a hand through hair that was still rather mussed and tousled from sleep.   
  
"Hope the barracks haven't spoiled you," a new voice said, and the two of them glanced aside to see Celdir son of Celebrethan giving them a faint smile. Beyond him, Torlas and Iordel were looking on. All of them were sons of minor nobility—out of Linhir and Ethring—and all of them had been a year behind Peloren and Elethil until lately.   
  
But before Peloren or Elethil could respond, another voice spoke: "Not much for them to spoil." Faldion of Morthond had joined them, and the look he gave Peloren and Elethil was decidedly unfriendly. Celdir sighed and gave the other esquire a look.  
  
"Leave off, will you, Fal?"  
  
Faldion did not so much as dignify Celdir with a glance, only pinned Peloren and Elethil under his gaze a moment, then said: "Best you keep up this morn. I'm not running extra miles for a pair of back-stabbers." So saying, he quickened his stride and departed, a few other lads trailing along behind him.  
  
Celdir shook his head in a disdainful manner and said: "Never mind him. Just keep up, for 'tis true none of us want to be running extra miles for anyone save the new lads, eh?" With that, he and Torlas and Iordel hurried away. In their wake, Peloren and Elethil exchanged glances. Clearly, there was more afoot where their return was concerned than they had gleaned last night, and Elethil sighed softly.  
  
But they had little time to dwell on such matters. By the time they had been herded down the lamp-lit streets of Dol Amroth and out to the training fields, the pale grey of dawn lit the sky and revealed a dull landscape. Which meant there was just enough light to pick out stones and other such obstacles on the twice-yearly first day run, which took them over grass and scrub fields, a few pasture fences, and out onto the sands of Dol Amroth's beaches.   
  
There they scrambled up and down the dunes and into the surf whenever the fancy struck the Armsmaster, who led the way with entirely too much enthusiasm for many. The line of esquires began to string out by the time they took their second set of dunes, for though none of them were unfit, not everyone had had the benefit of the ruthless regimen the Swan Knights kept. Peloren found himself blessing Ambraith about halfway through, for if there were one thing infantry knew, it was how to run. Nevertheless, when he glanced over his shoulder and saw the stragglers fading into the distance, he nearly groaned.   
  
Sure enough, just at that moment, Ornendil called a rest break. They came sloshing to a halt in the shallows, and many of them stood bent over, hands on their knees, as they fought to catch their breaths. From somewhere to his right, Peloren could hear the sound of someone vomiting, which made his stomach churn a little in sympathetic response.  
  
"Good morning, lads," Ornendil said then, and a ragged, panting chorus of "Good morning, sir," came back. The Armsmaster smiled benignly and said, "I hope we are all awake now and ready to work, for I promise you, the day is not yet begun." There were a few whimpers from the back ranks, but no more. Nevertheless, that was enough. Ornendil raised a brow. "Come, now, gentlemen, this is nothing! The art of war is what you have come to study, and such pleasure jaunts as this pale in the face of it. Best you learn to look them in the eye undaunted, for it is your task and your duty as a knight, who may at any time be called to command, to know the ways of war—all of them.   
  
"And the first thing you need to know, gentlemen," the Armsmaster continued, "is that there is no such thing as the  _art_  of war. War is an ugly, chaotic, and painful phenomenon, and such order as it has requires not the eye of an artisan to discern it but the nerves of a warrior—someone who has enough steel in him to think his way through what most men would rather pass through unconscious.   
  
"But that is not enough, either, for some of the veriest tyrants look upon war unflinching. Thus it is necessary to know what the difference is between a knight and a tyrant, that they are not the same though both face battle open-eyed and awake. You, Hengrist, what is the difference that separates the tyrant from the knight?"  
  
Hengrist, the youngest of the lord of Pinnath Gelin's sons, hesitated. "His aims, sir?" he hazarded after a moment.   
  
"Explain."  
  
"Well, a tyrant aims to oppress with war—"  
  
"Too late—that does not answer the question of why a battlefield is seen differently by a tyrant than by a knight. Angbor, what say you?"  
  
"I... do not know, sir."  
  
Ornendil sighed. "Elethil," he said, and Elethil straightened; "How many esquires did we begin with this morning?"  
  
This was what Peloren had been waiting for, for it was the same point every time. "Thirty-four, sir," Elethil replied.   
  
"Very good. Baragil, how many are we now?" he asked.  
  
"Ah..." Baragil looked to be trying to make a hasty headcount, but Ornendil did not wait upon it.  
  
"Aldan." The Armsmaster turned to address one of the older men who had come from the foot. "How many are we?" Aldan, who bore a scar on one cheek, replied immediately:  
  
"Twenty-seven, sir."   
  
"Twenty-seven. The other seven fell off the back of the last set of dunes. All of you swore to let the code of knighthood govern you. Peloren," Ornendil looked at him now, "what is the first rule of that code?"  
  
Peloren took a deep breath, and not just for feeling winded. "'I am a knight of Dol Amroth, and by the oath that created me so, one of a brotherhood that I shall honor and protect all the days of my life,'" he recited, dutifully.  
  
"Then who are your brothers this morning?"  
  
"All those who wear the white belt, all the esquires here, and the seven who come behind."  
  
"And if this were a battle?"  
  
"They would still be my brothers, sir."  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
"That if I could, I should be bound to protect them if they fell behind, Armsmaster."  
  
"Because...?"  
  
"Because," Peloren said, lifting his chin slightly against the heat of his face and the flutter of shame in his breast, "they are my brothers, and I shall do no harm to them, nor let them come to harm if I can prevent it."  
  
"Very well then. What that means, gentlemen, is that if this were a battle, you would have just abandoned your own, half of you without knowing it, apparently. That  _will not do_. You may die for Gondor, lads," the Armsmaster said, gazing about the circle of faces, eyes flashing. "You may die for the innocent, or for the people, or you may die for the Prince, and all that is meet and proper. But you live by and for your brothers. Without them, you are nothing. They do not abandon you and you do not abandon them. That is the difference, Hengrist, between the tyrant and the knight: the tyrant never knows his brother; he does not understand that he has any and so the carnage of war means nothing unless it touches him. Thus it has no horror for him, and so he has no honor, either, no matter his might in battle or daring." Ornendil paused and surveyed his weary band of esquires, and then he nodded, gesturing to the sergeants.   
  
"So, gentlemen," he continued, briskly, "now that your brothers have caught up with you, see that they keep up: no one falls behind this time. And while you run, all of you reflect on the first rule of the code. Let us go!"  
  
"Move, lads! On your way and step to it, this is nothing to sigh over," the sergeants cajoled, giving a little push here and there to urge a man onward.   
  
"Hurry it up!" one of them shouted in Peloren's face. "You're not tired yet, are you?"  
  
"No, sergeant," Peloren replied, for there could be no other answer, and he and Elethil fanned out habitually, the older, hardier students spreading out about their less experienced and more exhausted peers, netting them in their midst so that they could keep them with the group. Every year it was the same lesson, ever since Peloren had come to Dol Amroth, but he had never felt it sting so before.  
  
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and glanced sideways to see Elethil looking at him with some concern. He essayed a smile, then forced himself to focus, counting his breaths, emptying his mind of everything but the singular phrase that would not leave him now, and which unfolded in time to the rhythm of his strides:   
  
 _Knight of Dol Amroth... knight of Dol Amroth... save for one day of my life..._  
  


* * *

  
  
The first week after the induction of new esquires was always the worst. Aches and exhaustion were constant companions, even for those experienced in enduring such weeks. But for Peloren and Elethil, weariness acquired hitherto unknown depths, for though the sergeants and the Armsmaster worked everyone to the bone, they found themselves subject, along with others who fumbled or erred, to an extra mile to run added here or there, or an extra inspection, or to extra chores.   
  
Nevertheless, first week at least kept them busy and left them little time to think of other matters. Thus it was not until the second week that Peloren and Elethil began to take stock of the situation off the training field. The Solstice celebration had given them a taste of their fellows' reaction to their return, but anxious and uncomfortable, and all too well aware of the need to retire early from festivities in order to be prepared for the ordeal of the first day of training, they had kept to themselves for the most part and left early to go to bed. Now that first week was done, the days were still long and exhausting, but there was nonetheless an appreciable respite from the frantic, madcap pace, which let them begin to feel their way into their peers' company.  
  
There was no question but that everyone remembered what had happened, and among the esquires behind them in years, and with whom they had never been close, that showed in their demeanor, in the distance they kept that was _almost_  indifferent, save that it was too wary. It was among those who were but a year behind them, or the few from their own year who had been held back an extra two terms that things became rather more than simply uncomfortable.   
  
On the one hand, there were those like Faldion, the rather dour scion of one of Morthond's more prominent families, who clearly disliked them. He would not eat with them, would not study with them, and barely spoke to them (and then only when it was absolutely necessary). He was undoubtedly the most severe, yet there were a few others, lads with whom Peloren and Elethil had been friendly enough, even if never truly friends, who followed him.   
  
On the other, however, were lads like Celdir, Torlas, and Iordel—lads who had been friendly with Valyon and the other three who had been dismissed, and so also with Peloren and Elethil to a degree, though 'friendly' only, for a variety of reasons—who seemed more or less prepared to welcome them back. In the face of general ostracism, it had been a relief to find others who could sympathize with them, and with whom to commiserate about the masters' habit of late to send a whole squad on a five mile run at the end of the day, just for the failure of a few, all in the name of brotherhood. It put reservations at a distance—at least for a time.  
  
"I say the masters and sergeants have it in for you," Celdir remarked one evening, as their squad came panting back from one such jaunt along the scrub-covered plains. The five of them collapsed about the water barrel, and Peloren, without waiting to strip off his shirt, grabbed the bucket, dunked it in the barrel, and then upended it over his head, closing his eyes as the cool water streamed off of him. Iordel jabbed his arm.  
  
"Pass the pail—we're just as hot!" he said, and Peloren handed it over without comment, leaning against the edge of the barrel. Beside him, Elethil sat with his back braced against it, heedless of his soggy seat and wincing as he rubbed at the scratches on his hands. He had tripped at one point, and fallen into a patch of the prickly vegetation, and the stuff had clung to him, tearing into flesh and cloth as he had struggled to free himself and continue on.   
  
"You all right, Elya?" he asked, and Elethil glanced up and nodded, tiredly. Peloren sighed and let himself down beside his friend, who gave him a slight smile. Celdir wandered over to squat before the both of them, wincing a bit. But he gestured to them, and continued:   
  
"The masters want you out, you know. They'll keep this going until you crack and turn it all in," he warned, and wiped sweat from his brow.  
  
At that, Elethil stirred uncomfortably, and glanced at Peloren. Elethil, who was as provincial as Peloren and even more so, and the late-born son of a large but minor family, was not one to speak much, particularly not when he had a friend hard by willing to do it for him. Peloren, however, did not immediately answer Celdir.  
  
"You really ought to see about salve and some bandages for those—it's full armor tomorrow, you know, and the gauntlets will rub," Peloren told Elethil instead, ere he addressed himself to Celdir's claim. "We were cast out for a year, Celdir. 'Tis not so strange they should wish to test our resolve, to see whether we merit the clemency granted us."  
  
Torlas snorted at that, and Iordel sighed, and muttered, "Valar, that is sad!"   
  
Puzzled, Peloren frowned up at the pair. "What do you mean?" he asked after a moment.   
  
"Listen, Pel, Elya," Celdir said in a conspiratorial tone, drawing their eyes to him once more; "we all—" and here, he gestured to himself and to Torlas and Iordel "—understand what happened last year. There is no need to keep to the platitudes."  
  
"'Platitudes'?" Elethil hesitantly interjected, clearly as confused as Peloren.   
  
"The masters are under orders, we all know that—the Prince has ruled, and of course, they all know Imrahil very well and like him. Of course they do. Everyone does, but it seems they've let that liking get ahead of clear sight if they're trying to be rid of you."  
  
At this, Peloren shook his head, sharply, and then pushed his hands through sopping wet hair as he tried to sort out what he was being told. "A moment, Celdir," he said at length. "I fear it has been a long day, and I am weary and in want of a bath and supper, so you must forgive me the question, but... what is it, precisely, that you are trying to say?"  
  
"We could all use a bath and supper," Celdir acknowledged, smiling a little, though his eyes were serious, still. But then he continued: "The masters want you gone from this company, but they cannot simply throw you out, so they shall try to wear you down 'til you leave of your own will. That is likely why they leave Faldion and the others alone, though they hardly treat you as brothers ought. Mayhap there is some agreement there, at least with the sergeants, I do not know—you know how it can be, after all, if they want things done on the quiet. But make no mistake: this is not simply a test of your resolve, nor of your merit. What on earth would need testing where merit is concerned, after all?"  
  
Upon this pronouncement, Elethil and Peloren exchanged frankly disbelieving looks. "We were sent down for helping to _attack_  another esquire—" Peloren began, but Celdir shook his head, waving a hand.  
  
"Yes, of course, and that was regrettable. A definite breach of the Code, there is no question of it," he replied, quickly. "But they ought to have seen it coming—they were the ones who let a Southron in, and at Imrahil's insistence, if you remember. 'Twas he that pleaded with his father for the favor, and the Prince granted it—he does love his son, after all. Of course there would be trouble, 'tis only a pity it caught the six of you. It could have been anyone, given the... provocation. I ought to be thanking you for saving me from it.  
  
"In any event," Celdir said, while the two esquires stared speechless at him, "you will need to be careful. The sort of contempt Faldion harbors tends to breed, and who knows how far it may go? Meanwhile, there are others a little more clear-sighted you can count upon for help, if you need it."  
  
"'Help'?" Peloren repeated, and Celdir quickly held up his hands in a placating gesture.  
  
"To be sure, we would not wish to interfere with your affairs," he assured them, and the other two lads nodded. "But if you did want some... assistance... at any point, you have only to ask. We've not got any say with the masters, of course, but we can deal with Faldion if need be..."  
  
"I... do not believe that will be necessary," Peloren managed, not liking the ideas imagination presented him of what 'help' might amount to.  _"Imrahil needs our help,"_  Valyon had told them, when he had gathered his chosen friends and followers in his quarters. For that matter, Celdir had a sharp tongue, and a sharper temper, that had landed him in trouble before, not that that had spared his victim…  
  
"Well, call upon us if you should change your mind." So saying, Celdir gave them a friendly smile, then he, Torlas, and Iordel departed, chatting lightly amongst themselves, while Peloren and Elethil sat upon the muddy ground beside the water barrel, gazing after them in something like incomprehension.  
  
"Faldion on one side, Celdir on the other..." Peloren murmured at length, feeling an unpleasant thrill of foreboding.   
  
"And where  _are_  the masters in all this?" Elethil wondered aloud, giving his friend an anxious look.   
  
Peloren bit his lip, thinking of Ornendil and of the sergeants who had run them ragged that first week and who hovered ever ready to send them off on long runs or to the kitchens for galley duty or any of many other unpleasant chores.   
  
"I don't know," he said finally. "I just don't know."  
  
  
  
Which, of course, was a lie. Or at least, it felt like one as the days wore on, and still, they continued to be singled out for some extra chore or exercise by officer and sergeant alike. It was not as if such attention were wholly unexpected, but in light of that conversation with Celdir and the others, it was impossible not to wonder whether there were not indeed some effort to push them to fail and so to push them right out of the company.   
  
Nor was that the worst punishment. Granted, such singular treatment made them conspicuous, and left them shouldering more burdens than others, but at least in such instances, they were left mercifully to their own devices. But there were in addition all the times when  _everyone_  in their company endured an additional drill right alongside them. All of it in the name of brotherhood, of course:  
  
"You will pass together or you will fail together," Sergeant Voradril, one of Ornendil's helpers, snapped, repeating the dread chorus. "Two miles, down through the hills and back—leg it, lads!" And off they went, the whole company, stifling their groans while Peloren and Elethil tried to ignore the glares from some of their fellows.  
  
"They always wait 'til we make some mistake," Peloren panted in an effort to justify the pattern, as he and Elethil and a few other lads clambered over the sand hills a little below the city. "Happens to everyone sometimes."  
  
"And if you believe that, then I'm a Southron," Torlas shot back, ere setting his teeth and grimly continuing onward up the slope.   
  
"He's right, you know," Elethil said quietly, and Peloren sighed, unable to refute it. Not when he had such a stitch in his side. Not when he half-believed it himself.   
  
Nor was even that, in the end, the worst of it. The masters could make matters difficult for them, could catch them for any and every misstep and failure of form. But even they could not be everywhere. There were simply aspects of life in the Fledglings' Wing that knights no longer partook of; however, there was practically nothing an esquire did that could not be shared with his fellows. Which meant that if someone took it upon himself to pull a prank or quietly discipline a brother-esquire, there might be no one to prevent it.   
  
Particularly if the victims were Peloren and Elethil, no one might  _want_  to prevent it, even if it did bring down the wrath of their betters upon a whole squad or the entire wing.   
  
"Are you sure you don't know who it is?" Peloren asked Celdir once, as the two of them paused from a punitive mucking out of the stables. The night before, someone had spilled ink on the threshold of Elethil's door. It might have been an accident. Then again, if it had been, the responsible party would have tried to clean it up, and failing to erase the mark, would have brought it to the attention of the servants for help. The sergeants had had but to walk down the hall that morning to discover the mess, and when no one would own up to it, had contrived to saddle each and every esquire squad with some noxious chore at the end of the day. Peloren supposed he ought to be glad he was simply mucking out the stables, for at least he loved horses. Faldion's squad had drawn latrine duty, which was far worse.  _And not only for them!_  Peloren thought, forebodingly.  
  
Celdir leaned on his shovel and shook his head, wrinkling his nose at the smell of soiled hay. "One of Faldion's followers, obviously. But I do not know which one, though I doubt it was Faldion himself. You know how the Morthond lads are—not an inventive bone to share among them!"  
  
"You really haven't heard anything?"  
  
"Nay, though I've listened. Look, Pel, you know how it is," Celdir replied, as he dug in again. "My sympathies are known; there's not a lad on the other side who would breathe a word of anything in my hearing, or that of any of my friends. Of course not. We can vouch for you and Elethil, but what of it? The sergeants or the officers may decide to leave you be sometimes if we do, but that just means someone else will make you pay for it later on, and the whole thing goes round. You know how it's played."  
  
And indeed, Peloren did. He knew it, and Elethil knew it, for they had all relied on the system to teach a brother-esquire a lesson or two before, all on the quiet and away from knightly eyes. For brothers were to correct each other—that was written in the Code. Of course, 'correction' meant different things to different minds, and sometimes, if the matter were uncertain enough, someone who disapproved and knew something would bring it to the ears of a sergeant, and then there'd be trouble for a day or a week. But sergeants, too, had once been esquires; even captains had been, and so there was a certain tolerance of such things.   
  
So now it was their turn to be 'corrected', and Peloren could gauge the measure of his and Elethil's acceptance in the stony silence from the opposition, and the utter shutting out of Celdir and his lads. Not that Peloren wanted overmuch to do with Celdir and his lot anyway—they might be friendly towards him— _Or friendlier, at least_ , Peloren thought, for even they kept a certain strangely fastidious distance—but clearly their sense of what was owed to whom had not changed much since that fateful day last summer. A shield they might be against the accusatory looks and silences of others, but Peloren found himself wanting to wash his hands after being in their company, and was just as glad to see them withdraw again until the next incident required a show of support.   
  
Not that anyone else seemed to mark that line between him and Celdir's lot—to Faldion's eyes, and no doubt even to some of the sergeants, there was no difference to be seen between them, save that Peloren and Elethil had got caught, while Celdir, Torlas, and Iordel and the others had not been. And so the thing went round.  
  
"I do not know which is worse," Elethil complained in an undertone one evening, perhaps a month later, as the two of them sat up late in the library of Dol Amroth, poring over a compendium of the chivalric laws that Master Illian had set them to study. Elethil folded his arms over his notes and laid his head upon them. "The blisters from ten extra miles this week or the blistering glares from the others!"  
  
"You could study with Torlas over there if you want friendly eyes," Peloren muttered absently, and Elethil put his head in his hands.  
  
"Can you be serious a moment?" he demanded in a low voice, without looking up.  
  
Peloren blinked to clear his vision, and he watched the blur of lines become letters once more.  _In the year 1450 of the Third Age, it was decreed that men-at-arms must swear an oath of allegiance to serve Gondor above all other loyalties, in order that there should be no question of the king's supremacy over all his vassals..._  He sighed and pushed the book away.   
  
"We should not talk about this here," he murmured, for they were not the only ones to burn the midnight oil this night. In addition to Torlas, seated across the room, light spilled from the chandelier above another table, illuminating blue tunics and weary, youthful faces, and there were a scattering of other, isolated readers who used the smaller lanterns in the centers of the tables to light their way through the library's tomes.  
  
"Then let us leave this place. Truly, Pel, do you believe we will get any further tonight?" Elethil asked.  _We should try,_ Peloren thought, but any resolve melted swiftly away in the face of Elethil's expectant air and his own sore muscles. He closed the book, and they rose and made their way out, with the heat of invisible eyes boring into their backs it felt. At this hour, the halls were deserted, save for the occasional sentry, who scrutinized them, but let them pass without a word, recognizing their tabards. At length, they came to the esquires' quarters, and since Peloren's were nearer, they ended in his room.   
  
With a soft sigh, Peloren leaned against the wall for balance and removed first one boot, then the other. That task accomplished, he then went and flopped wearily down upon his cot. Lying on his stomach, he gathered his pillow in his arms and laid his head upon it. Elethil gingerly took a seat at his desk. "What is the matter, Elya?" Peloren asked around a yawn. "Other than the obvious, I mean."  
  
"Has anyone been in your room?" Elethil asked.  
  
Peloren frowned. "Somebody came in two weeks ago. Hid all my notes in different places. Last week, somebody else tore the sheets off my bed, left things a mess—Sergeant Barcalan was not pleased. He had all my squad on scullery duty, helping the cooks scrub pots for the third shift for two nights. Other than that, I do not believe so. Why?"  
  
"Sometimes I wake up because I feel as if I am being watched. Sometimes, I even think I hear the door close," Elethil replied.   
  
"Have you caught anyone?"  
  
"Do  _you_  stand straight up in bed for anything less than the sergeants calling us to some unannounced exercise?" Elethil sounded frustrated. "I would say it is Faldion or one of his lot, but I cannot prove it. Everyone is weary, I know that, but with the exception of you, no one else is pulling extra shifts in the stables or guard duty or going for runs with the sergeants like I am. By the time I go to look, if ever there were anyone, he is gone."  
  
Peloren thought about this a moment. Then: "So will you tell the sergeants?"  
  
"Tell them what? That I wake up in the middle of the night because I  _think_  someone may be spying?"  
  
"Then go back to sleep," Peloren advised, with a helpless shrug. "It cannot be that difficult!" Indeed, the difficulty, as Elethil had intimated, lay in being wakeful, and he yawned again. To his surprise, his friend ducked his head, face flushed, and he squirmed a little, as if with discomfort. "Elya?"  
  
"I do try to sleep, but they all know how we did it by now," he muttered. "The story has been out for more than a year. So when I wake up, I cannot help but think... well, you know."  
  


 _His door, like all other esquires' doors, had no locks. He had seemed asleep when they had entered, unaware 'til the last moment and then—_ pain! __

 _"He_ bit _me!"_

_"Close the door!"_

_"SIT ON HIM!"_

_And in the chaos that had followed, there had been the flash of dark eyes in a dark face, and he still did not know whether that was fear or anger or surprise. Not until Andrahar's bound form had fallen limply to the floor, faceless, senseless, not a friend, not a foe, not even 'Southron' or 'bastard,' just a body—all skin and feeling, blood and bruises and suffering..._  We shall kill him if we continue!

 _"That's_ enough—!"

  
  
Peloren shook himself. It was a too-familiar memory, and had visited him many a night when the mind, heedless of the body, goes on its own paths. And sometimes, the memory was reversed, and it was he who awakened to hands without faces that gripped and clawed and battered, and Peloren would jerk awake in fact then, all in a sweat and panting, his flesh crawling. Elethil's troubled face, and the shadows beneath his eyes, Peloren understood then from his own long nights, though at least he had never dreamt—if dream it ever was—of someone watching over him, as if waiting to attack.   
  
But perhaps he shared that fear even so, on some level, for his dreams had not been so bad until they had rejoined the esquires in the Fledglings' Wing. Thus when he spoke, it was not only for Elethil's sake:  
  
"Even if they do watch, they shall not act," Peloren said softly. "If they did, they should be no better than us, and have no ground for their contempt."  
  
"I know that," Elethil replied, drawing his knees up and clasping his arms about them as he stared at the wall over Peloren's head. "I don't believe it, though."  
  
 _Because after all, we did it._  The self-accusation hung in the air, and Peloren sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. And tired as he was, he had very nearly fallen asleep, despite Elethil's presence, when his friend muttered: "Sometimes I think what I hate most is that it could have been any of them. Andrahar never had any friends, save Imrahil. Any one of them would have done it if Valyon had asked him. Not that you would know it now."  
  
"Celdir's friendly enough—"  
  
"Oh, he's friendly enough, aye," Elethil said darkly, and snorted. "He's the one who  _said_  he could've done it, after all. But he didn't, and he doesn't stay about, you know, other than to make a show of standing with us. If I told him about this, he probably would declaim it in the hall and stay up a night or two at my door. As it is, if he keeps on as he has been, then soon enough, Imri won't be the only one with a pet, but I'll say I like the prince's care better!"  
  
Peloren was silent a long moment, before he asked quietly, "Do you want me to ask Faldion about nightly visitations?"  
  
"I don't need to be your pet, either," came the sour, sharp retort.  
  
While Peloren struggled to find a response to that, there came a rustle of clothing, ere a hand brushed his back. "I'm sorry," Elethil sighed. "It's just that I'm tired."  
  
There was the crack of bones then as Elethil stretched, which announced his friend's intention a moment before his words did: "Good night, Pel."  
  
"Mm," Peloren managed, listening as Elethil made his way out and shut the door quietly behind himself. He lay there awhile longer himself, thinking that he ought to think, that he ought to reflect on what had just been said for a time, but it was exhausting even to contemplate the effort of thought. Instead, after a little while, he rolled onto his back, undid all the ties and buttons and buckles, and managed to crawl out of his clothes without ever rising. Kicking them onto the floor, he burrowed under the covers and was instantly asleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
Despite common wisdom, which held that unhappiness made time crawl by, summer all too quickly gave way to autumn. The winds grew brisk and chill, and morning runs more often left one with mud up to one's knees as the sergeants tramped right through the boggy swatches of the field, undeterred by the puddles. Nevertheless, mud or no mud, there were fewer added miles, for summer had taught the stragglers endurance, and with the help and encouragement of their fellows, the esquires finished together.   
  
Meanwhile, training continued as ever it had: after the inevitable morning run and breakfast, it was off to arms practice for half the company, while the other half practiced horsemanship. By midmorning they would switch off; lunch was set promptly at noon, exercises continued afterwards for some hours, and then everyone dispersed for the rest of the day to the more scholarly and courtly subjects they were required to learn. Supper came and went, and afterwards, for those who had managed to incur the displeasure of their instructors, there were the additional chores.   
  
The pranks continued apace, from time to time landing Peloren or Elethil in trouble when they were made late due to missing articles of clothing or 'lost' books, or simply being 'accidentally' pushed into a watering trough or other, more noxious substances. But neither reported any of it, either—not only was it likely to arouse a deeper antipathy towards them, but they knew the game and how it was played. One did not complain. One endured, or one left the company. That was the way of these sorts of things, and after having been once expelled, neither Peloren nor Elethil were about to surrender their places.  
  
Beyond that, however aggravating the hypocrisy of their peers, however maddening their cool condescension, it did not change the primal fact: none of  _them_  had actually attacked and beaten a brother-esquire. Not even Celdir, whose gestures of fellowship both of them had begun to feel they could have done without, since they occasioned more abuse than they could possibly alleviate (which was not much in the first place). And so they put their heads down and endured. Mid-term trials came and went, and still they struggled on.  
  
The only break in the grim contest of wills for Peloren came during the hours he spent in the stables or on the fields with his horse, Lightfall. There at least he could be free both of false friendship and the open contempt of the rest of his peers, absorbed by his work. For like many sons of nobility, he had grown up around horses and learned early to ride, but there were days when he wondered whether he might not be better off breeding horses for knights than attempting to become one. Certainly the care and breeding of horses was a skill the Swan Knights liked to cultivate in a lad who seemed apt, and Peloren had always made a point to volunteer himself for stable duties. Whatever the opinion of the Horsemaster and his assistants about Peloren where other esquires were concerned, they seemed to trust he would never harm a horse.   
  
And truly, he never would: he had always loved them, and for whatever reason, they seemed mostly to love him in return. Thus, even as it had ever been at home, when he had been a boy and smarting from his father's opprobrium, solace was a stable filled with horses eager for a brush.   
  
"And you are always wanting a brush, aren't you?" he asked, clucking his tongue at Lightfall as he knelt and sponged mud off his horse's legs with warm water one late October afternoon. Lightfall snorted, and his velvety nose came to rest just there, at the juncture of Peloren's shoulder and neck. His master shivered at the ticklish feeling, though he quickly reached up and laid a hand on the gelding's long face, stroking reassuringly.   
  
Théorwyn, the broad-faced Master of Horses, had had them practicing at quintain that day—or at least, he had had the esquires he deemed trustworthy with their mounts and experienced enough as riders tilting at it. There were still plenty of pages, and even esquires, whom he held to more basic drills which, even if they required a definite skill—such as tilting for rings—did not involve the risk of being bludgeoned off the back of one's horse if one failed to perform the drill properly. Peloren, who had ever been apt at such things, had been practicing with quintains since soon after his arrival in Dol Amroth, and was a regular at the esquires' jousting boards.   
  
Today's exercise had been complicated by combining it with another drill: just beneath and beyond the quintain, a war dart had been planted into the ground to either side, forming a sort of gate through which a horse and rider could pass. They were just short enough in the haft that it was impossible to reach them without leaning down, but in theory, that was no trouble: the aim was to hit the shield with one's lance, duck under the counterweight, and grab one of the darts as one passed by.  
  
"Once you have hit the shield," Théorwyn had instructed, "lean to your left and take one of the darts, then make for the end of the field at the gallop. You have ten tries: you must hit the target stationed there at least five times. If you fall below that, you will report to me this evening and you shall repeat the drill until I am satisfied.  
  
"Whether or not you hit your targets within the ten passes allowed, once you attain five hits, you will switch to the other side. Once you have hit the shield, drop your spear and grab the dart. Remember that in a battle, spears break easily and often, but with some practice, you may be able to acquire another from an enemy or else from the ground—as in this case. Again, in ten passes, your aim is to hit the target five times. Should you find this too demanding, remember that you are only being asked to complete a maneuver properly half the time. Which means," Théorwyn concluded, eyeing the ring of esquires, "that the other half of the time, you have failed, and on the battlefield, failure tends to end in death—your death, or worse, your brother's. Is that clear?"  
  
"Yes, sir," the esquires had replied.   
  
"Excellent. Leave your shields by the railing, then, and remember: correct each other's faults when you see them, for the esquire company that most reliably hits its targets in ten tries is exempted from the five mile run at the end of the day." With that, Théorwyn had left them under the watchful eyes of two of his assistants and urged his own mount over to where the more inexperienced riders were congregating.   
  
It had been a challenging exercise, one that had in fact ended with several esquires falling off their mounts—not because of the quintain, but because they would wait too long to make a grab for the dart, or else would not grasp it firmly enough. Off-balance, it did not need much to send them tumbling. Fortunately or unfortunately, however one chose to view the matter, the ground was damp and muddy from an early morning shower, which had cushioned the fall, even if it had left them covered in mud. Matters grew even more complex when the assistants began moving the targets, forcing riders to swerve hard to the right or left, or even to come around again afterwards and dart back across a waymarker pole in a certain amount of time if they wished their pass to count.   
  
But Peloren had enjoyed the exercise, and in fact, he and Lightfall had done quite well, averaging five hits in nine passes for his off-side, and five in seven for his lance-side, even on the more difficult courses. Lightfall had risen to the challenge magnificently as well, the gelding pinning his ears back to run flat out for the waymarkers, shying not at all from the ribbons the two assistants had attached to them, and which fluttered in the breeze. Peloren had managed to keep his seat throughout, though there had been one close call when Lightfall, in his enthusiasm, had taken a sharp turn a little too quickly for Peloren, who had not managed to pick up the war dart on that pass, too intent on staying upon his horse's back.  
  
"Wise choice," one of the assistants, Evarin, had told him, when he urged Lightfall back around to rejoin the others. "It may cost you in the end on this field, but in a real fight, you want to stay horsed at all costs if you're in a charge. If it is between a spear and your seat, always prefer your seat and trust your horse to carry you through it to another chance to arm yourself. Always assuming you haven't your sword, of course."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Peloren had replied, and Evarin had reached up and given him a pat on the knee.  
  
"Back in line—let's see you do it again!"  
  
In the end, Peloren's company won the contest handily, which meant for once, there would be no need for him to spend his evening hours on additional exercises. Moreover, since Master Illian had not given them anything new to study, and he had already read through the treatise previously assigned, he had found himself with that rarest of commodities: free time. And so despite the damp fields, he had taken Lightfall off for a quick ride, eager to be away from others for a time, and it had worked: none had troubled them, and he had returned to a nearly empty stable, save for the pages and stable lads.  
  
As he stooped again with the sponge to attend to Lightfall's hind legs, a shadow fell across the stall, and a few muttered curses reached his ears ere the stall door adjacent to Lightfall's squeaked. Above him, Lightfall nickered softly and snorted. Another snort answered as horsy greetings ensued. Peloren ran a towel over one leg, then rose, pail in hand, to see to the other. On the other side of the divide, Aldan started, his eyes widening slightly at his appearance.   
  
"Give you good day," Peloren offered politely, if a bit coolly. Not that he held any particular grudge against Aldan, but he did not know him, either. They were in separate squads, and whenever their paths had crossed, they had never found much to say to each other. Not that that was surprising, even: Aldan was older for one thing—married already and with a child on the way according to the talk in the halls. He had also most certainly heard enough about Peloren not to wish to cultivate any too close ties, though Peloren did not know whether he followed Faldion or simply had decided to stay well clear of trouble. And like most of the esquires who had been admitted after some exemplary service in the foot, he tended not to mingle overmuch with those of higher birth anyway. No doubt he would eventually overcome that reluctance, but it usually took the better part of a year for such men to begin to shed the habit of deference.  
  
"Good day," Aldan replied after a moment, though his face—or rather the mud—told a different story. He returned his attention to the cinch, and to stripping the tack from his mount. Hauling the saddle and blanket off, he set them on their stands, then reached for the brush... only to fumble it. It fell to the ground with a clatter. Aldan sighed, and to Peloren's surprise, asked, "Could you do me a favor and fetch that?"   
  
 _Am I the new stable boy now?_  Peloren wondered, but checked the welling up of caustic feeling when he saw the look on the other's face. And so he said, "Just a moment." He moved to set his pail down, with an admonishment to Lightfall not to move, then ducked out of his stall and into Aldan's, stooping quickly to pick up the brush. As he handed it to the other, he looked him up and down, taking in the rather impressive amount of dirt and grass stains, and asked, "Long day in the saddle?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking," Aldan grunted, raising the brush a little as he finished, "My thanks. It's just that I don't know if I can manage bending over right now, and squatting is out of the question."  
  
"What happened?" Peloren asked, as he made his way back to his own stall.   
  
"Master Théorwyn thought we should learn how to mount at speed." Peloren grunted. He remembered that drill, though he had learned it young, on a whim. Days he had spent in the sandy training corral at home, endeavoring to swing himself up into the saddle while his horse trotted along on a lead line that he had tied to a central post. He had eventually discovered that a twelve year-old boy needed a running start to manage the trick, though that presented its own difficulties. A few years' growth and practice had let him do it much more easily, but he had had his share of falls—as had Aldan, who apparently had fallen often enough to be assigned the task of stabling the practice horse.  
  
"Without stirrups, I take it," he said, nodding to the saddle, which had none.  
  
"Quite," Aldan replied, and shook his head as he began plying the brush over his mount. "Why, I do not know. It seems a fancy sort of trick to be learning, but not much use."  
  
"Oh, I shouldn't say that," Peloren replied, mildly. "'Tis very good for impressing the lasses, for one thing," he said, and actually got a snort and a bit of a grin for that jest. "And it is some use, actually. My father says he has seen riders who have lost their horses in battle take an enemy's with that trick. But since there is another in the saddle, it needs to be learned without using the stirrups. And of course, one learns to pull the other out of the saddle at the same time."  
  
Aldan harrumphed at that. "Mayhap it will serve some. Not me, though. Give me a pike rather than a remount and we shall all do better for it."  
  
"When do you fall off?" Peloren asked, swiping at Lightfall's legs once more with the towel, ere he rose. Peering over his mount's back, he raised a brow at Aldan. "Before or after you reach the saddle?"  
  
"Doesn't matter which. Mostly before, but the rare occasions I manage to get into the saddle, this lad'll stop suddenly, and the next thing I know, I'm back where I began the day—flat on my back," Aldan replied.  
  
"Are you jerking the reins when you mount?"  
  
"Master Théorwyn had them tied up out of the way so there was no risk of that."  
  
Peloren grunted, eyeing the horse. "And he is no novice, either..."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"Well, Master Théorwyn would never use an untried horse in the ring with new riders. There is time enough to make a proper horseman of you, after all. Besides, this fellow has too wise an eye to be new, haven't you?" Peloren asked, coming around to face the horse. He blew gently into his face, wrinkled his nose when the horse did likewise, then reached and began scratching his neck. "What's his name? Do you know?"  
  
"Ilmar, I think." Aldan's brow creased as he watched the horse butt Peloren gently in the chest. Peloren, in response, began scratching the starry patch between his eyes. "You're certain you don't know each other?"  
  
"Quite certain. He's new since last year, at least—probably just retired by one of the lords in the area, and bought expressly for practice. And he's a fine lad. Aren't you?" he asked Ilmar again, then turned back to Aldan. "Have you ever had much to do with horses?"  
  
"No. I was born down in Roper's Lane in the city, and my wife is still there. Never had need of a horse, nor the means to keep one."  
  
"And does he stop for others?"  
  
"Nay, only for me. Though I am not the only one to miss the saddle," Aldan declared, wincing slightly as he arched his back and his spine cracked audibly.  
  
"Hmm. Are you worried about riding him?"  
  
Aldan snorted. "Do I look a fool to you?" he demanded. "Of course I am!"  
  
"That's likely it, then. He knows you don't want him to move, so he stops as soon as he can," Peloren said. Aldan was giving him a skeptical look, and Peloren shrugged. "I suppose it might be otherwise, but I have seen horses do such before. They know our hearts better than we do most often—you may think you wish him to continue, but he knows otherwise and does as he feels bidden."  
  
Aldan sighed, a frustrated sound, and he ran a hand over the bottom portion of his face, scratching a bit at the beard growing in there. Then he shook his head. "If that is so, then it shall be a long four years, if I manage even one!"  
  
"But the horse you use ordinarily, do you trust yourself with him?"  
  
"More or less, for what we have been taught, but that is a different matter. 'Tis nothing more exciting than a canter, and none of this leaping onto his back," Aldan replied.   
  
"You should try it with him. If you trust him more than this fellow, you may have some success."  
  
"I'm expected elsewhere shortly."  
  
"Learning to read?"  
  
That got him a bit of a flat look, as Aldan bridled a little. "'Tis true I had no great schooling, young lord, but I learned my letters as a boy," he replied, clearly proud of this fact, and Peloren inclined his head, spreading his hands slightly by way of apology. And then, considering the other for the moment, and aware that he had not had such an extended conversation with another esquire (other than Elethil; Celdir and his lot did not count in his eyes) since last year that had not ended in insult, he suggested, feeling odd for the hesitancy in his voice and heart:  
  
"When I was a boy, I was taught how to ride. Since then I have loved horses, even the caring for them, which many do not. If you had time, and wished it... it would be no trouble to me to show you how to manage things, so you could practice with your own mount, or give you some advice if I have any. I have some time this evening, even."   
  
Aldan grunted and raised a brow. "Your squad won that jousting contest today, then?" Apparently, word spread quickly, Peloren thought.   
  
"'Twas quintain, not jousting, but yes."  
  
The older man considered him searchingly a few moments longer, and Peloren wondered what he sought in his face, or what he found, for finally, Aldan nodded. "If you've the time, I'd be grateful. But there's no hiding I'm the worst rider of the lot, though—it may take a  _lot_  of time."  
  
"Well, you know what the Armsmaster is always saying," Peloren replied, and Aldan sighed.   
  
"'All together, or fall together,'" he quoted, and shook his head. "Never thought it could get worse than phalanx training with the Third Company, but that man and his sergeants could change my mind!" Peloren chuckled, though having experienced both the infantry's regime and Ornendil's, he could not but agree with the sentiment.  
  
"Come back after supper. 'Tis still light enough for such things."  
  
"After supper, then."  
  
"Do you need help with Ilmar? Now that I've taken your time talking, I mean," Peloren added swiftly. Aldan raised a brow.  
  
"You really have nothing to do?"  
  
"For a wonder, not today."  
  
"Then if you're willing, I would not mind a bit of help. I can only be so late."   
  
"Don't I know it!" Peloren replied heavily, but he hurried to draw a blanket over his own mount, and since he knew the stable boys had already seen to Lightfall's feed and water trough, fetched his own brush, then took it and the pail and sponge around to Ilmar's other side. "I'll see to his legs first; you brush."  
  
"My thanks."  
  
"'Tis my pleasure," Peloren replied, as he bent to work.  _You have no idea how much!_  
  


* * *

  
  
Thus began his association with Aldan, for one meeting became two, and then three, and before long, they were struggling to find regular hours in which to meet and work on Aldan's horsemanship. As a rule, it was somewhat easier for Peloren, given his hours in the stables, particularly as cold weather took its toll on older horses and anyone who had some knowledge of the nursing of horses was much sought after.   
  
Aldan would accompany him if he could, and though he had not any least notion of what to do with ailing horses, he followed instructions and could hold a lead rein with the best of them. Sometimes Elethil joined them, but usually, he had his own chores, whether punitive or otherwise, and so Peloren did not see his friend as often. But at least it meant he rarely spent any time with Celdir, either—the Lord of Linhir's son had never been one to enjoy stablework, particularly if it meant spending overmuch time with commoners, and his lot tended to follow suit. So despite missing Elethil, Peloren was grateful to Aldan for more than just his good company.  
  
One day, perhaps a week before Mettarë and the winter holidays, as Peloren was coaxing one of the geldings to lift his foreleg, so he could see what might be the cause of a sudden stiff-legged limp, a shadow fell upon him, and he glanced up to see Master Théorwyn standing over him. "Sir," he said, quickly, rising to salute.   
  
"Be easy," Théorwyn said, quickly waving off such formalities. "Have you found anything?" he asked, nodding towards the horse.  
  
"I have only just begun looking at him. But I do not think he has picked up a stone, and the way he stands..." Peloren shook his head. "It seems as if it is the joint, not the hoof, that troubles him, sir."  
  
"So I would guess as well. I've asked Master Kendrion and Evarin to take a look at him in a bit, so we may talk. Come," Théorwyn said, laying a hand upon his shoulder and drawing him along with him as he made for the stable doors.   
  
The Master of Horses led him out to the fenced pastures, which had still some green upon them, Dol Amroth having mild winters by comparison with other regions. There Dol Amroth's herds grazed still, moving between hay pitched for them and the remaining green shoots. Heads came up instantly and ears swiveled their way as they came to lean upon the railing. "Beautiful, are they not?" Théorwyn said, smiling as he gazed upon them.   
  
"Yes, sir," Peloren replied, drawing his cloak close about himself.   
  
"What do you think?" the Horsemaster said, and nodded at a young horse, perhaps eighteen months old. Dappled grey, he stood with his ears straining forward, watching them intently. Peloren frowned, considering the animal for a time.   
  
"Well, he is a pretty thing, certainly. Bright, too, from the look of him, but..."  
  
"But?"  
  
"He is young, so perhaps he shall surprise me, but he seems a bit light in the chest for a war-horse. Not broad enough to bear up to what he should have to carry, sir," Peloren replied.  
  
At that, Théorwyn grunted, though he continued to stare out at the horses. Meanwhile:  _What is this about?_  Peloren wondered, suppressing the urge to shift nervously. Of late, most attention from one of the masters had either been critical, or else if it were praise, it tended to arouse a definite resentment from some of his peers that he would have preferred to avoid altogether. If Master Théorwyn had found some fault, he would rather hear it quickly, and if not, well, he was growing tired of the amount of laundry he was having to do to deal with the damage to his clothing that came of being pushed into ditches or soiled hay by "accident."   
  
Finally, though: "You and Aldan have spent much time together lately, I notice," Théorwyn said, and gave him a thoughtful look. "He has improved under your instruction."  
  
"He simply knew little of horses, sir," Peloren replied, a little warily, and he shrugged.   
  
"'Tis not knowledge alone gives a man horsemanship," Théorwyn countered. "You have spent much time learning to understand them—before you came to us as well as after. You've an eye for them, as you just showed me. Evarin tells me you are unbeatable as the master of the quintain among the esquires, and I have seen enough to agree. And you know a good deal about caring for horses as well as riding them. I know all of it will count as one of the two skills knights must have, but what other are you cultivating?"  
  
"I can scribe well enough," Peloren answered, though in truth, his writing was merely passable compared to the penmanship and accuracy of someone like Torlas.  
  
"What about teaching? You've done well with Aldan: I've spoken with him, and he swears by you," Théorwyn said, which was news to Peloren, though certainly, he knew Aldan was grateful for the help. "I know that in the past, you have been known to give the odd lecture to a page when it comes to caring for horses. And you have certainly proved yourself patient this past year—" whereupon Peloren ducked his head against the flush of his cheeks "—which an instructor always needs."   
  
"I... had not thought of it, sir," Peloren answered honestly.   
  
"Then think upon it now. Come Yuletide, I shall be losing Evarin to the Prince's household in Minas Tirith—he is betrothed to the daughter of one of the lords of that city, as you may know. It needs no white belt to instruct pages," Théorwyn said, "and I have had my eye on you for some time. I believe you could do this and it would certainly profit us all."  
  
Peloren was silent for several moments, turning this unexpected offer over in his mind, trying to wrap his thoughts about it.  _To be one of Master Théorwyn's assistants... a teacher of horses and their riders..._  Most knights learned their two skills and employed them occasionally when the need arose, none of them being particularly gifted, but simply adequate to such tasks. War was their true calling, after all. But there were always a few who rose above that, and though Peloren had always known he was an excellent horseman, he had never considered that he might be one of those few.   
  
 _Possibly,_  he cautioned himself.  _Horses you know, but there is still the matter of their riders, and there..._  Well, there were problems there, clearly—indeed, it was hard to believe he was having this conversation, given the weight of disapproval he had been laboring under the past few months. It felt somewhat as if he had taken a blow to the head, in fact—the sense of shock and the world reeling was much the same.  _And what would the others say?_  He could envision his squad's reaction all too easily.  
  
Which was why, at length, he said, very carefully, "Master Théorwyn, I am very honored you would think of me to help you after Evarin leaves. But would this not cause... trouble... if the pages were left to my care? After last year, I should not have thought any would want me set over another, and the others..." He trailed off, and forced himself to raise his eyes to Théorwyn's face.   
  
The Horsemaster's expression was mild, though, as he replied, "Despite your involvement in Valyon's plot against Andrahar, the Prince of Dol Amroth had faith that when you had served your sentence, you would return to us tempered against such abuses. Your words, and moreover your actions, tell me he was right to believe so, and in any case, I have never thought you had it in you to abuse a ten year-old boy. Your skill in horsemanship is undeniable, and the Swan Knights need those who can take on the charge to teach others to assume it." A pause, then: "Or do you have some specific concerns about your fellows, Peloren?"  
  
"No, sir," Peloren said hastily. Théorwyn scrutinized him a long moment, and oddly enough, he seemed... almost disappointed, though Peloren could not for the life of him imagine why. But:  
  
"Very well, then. We shall call that settled. We will speak again, soon, for I shall want you to keep more regular stable hours, and to join me on the fields with the pages and some of your less experienced peers. That means we will need to adjust your own practice schedule somewhat. I'll speak to the Armsmaster and Master Illian about it," Théorwyn told him, and gave a satisfied nod. "Off with you now, and see what Kendrion and Evarin have discovered about our lame horse."  
  
"Yes, sir," Peloren said, bowing. Still reeling a bit from disbelief, he beat a hasty retreat, glancing back only once over his shoulder. Théorwyn still stood leaning against the fence, gazing out at the horses.  _Did you imagine he would vanish?_  his inner voice demanded, and Peloren sighed.  _Focus, Pel! It is a great chance you have been offered, even if the other esquires do not like it much. If Théorwyn approves, that can only help you. Do not give him reason to regret the offer, then, but get you to work and put the rest aside!_  So resolved, he quickened his pace, and for the first time in quite awhile, felt himself light as a feather.   
  
Thus he did not see Théorwyn look after him and sigh. With a last glance at the herd, the Master of Horses betook himself back to the castle and through the halls until he came at last upon the Fledglings' Wing. Pausing by a heavy oak door at the start of the corridor, he raised a hand and rapped smartly upon it.   
  
"Come!" came the somewhat muted reply, and Théorwyn obeyed.   
  
Within, Ornendil sat back in his chair, and Illian, seated before the Armsmaster's desk, straightened as Théorwyn shut and locked the door behind him. "Well?" Ornendil asked without preamble as Théorwyn shrugged off his cloak and settled into the chair next to Illian's.   
  
Stripping off his gloves, Théorwyn leaned his elbows on the armrests. He folded his hands and pressed them to his lips as he gazed pensively down at the desktop. Finally, he replied:   
  
"We have a problem."  
  


* * *

  
  
Ornendil listened, as Théorwyn described his meeting with Peloren, his colleague's expression between worry and frustration the while. When he had done, the Armsmaster sighed softly. Illian sat rubbing his brow, frowning, and for a time, silence reigned. At last, though, Ornendil said heavily:  
  
"We knew it would be a difficult task to bring them back into the fold."  
  
Théorwyn grimaced. "I just fear we may have contributed to that, rather than helped. I know we agreed among ourselves that this first term back should be no easy stroll in the country, that it would help the sergeants and others in the company to see them struggle and feel they had earned their chance. And that in truth they deserved a testing." The Master of Horses snorted, waving a hand. "Valar know it has helped me to see that they truly want it and are willing to work for it, to suffer for it a bit, even. But I asked Peloren to his face whether he had any concerns about his fellows after he suggested it himself, and he shut up tighter than a clam. We know a good number of the other esquires are at least avoiding him, and I wouldn't be surprised if a few are bullying him, if quietly, under the guise of correction."  
  
"Bullying both of them," Illian interjected, and lowered his hand to look from Théorwyn to Ornendil. "Frankly, I am more worried about Elethil. Peloren at least has the horses, and making him an assistant and eventually a junior instructor will give him some protection. Elethil, though... he has always been the quieter of the two, and unfortunately, while he is a competent swordsman, he is not outstanding in any particular area. We cannot promote him to any special post. And I have noticed that since Peloren began spending time working with Aldan, Elethil has been scarce, and when he  _is_  about, he is often in the library, asleep over some tome or other."  
  
"You were going to have a word with him, Illian," Ornendil said then. "You or one of the Prince's instructors. I take it that conversation was even less profitable?"  
  
"Aye. He also will not admit to there being any trouble, though I pressed him harder than Théorwyn questioned Peloren. I also had the language tutor, Harthil, speak with him—you know he knows his business when it comes to asking questions!—but again, Elethil will say nothing against the others, though 'tis clear to both Harthil and me that he has no idea what he is reading half the time." The Swan Knights' Master of Records shook his head. "He is not in that library to study, he is there to escape—no one is permitted to disturb anyone there, not even with talk, and the reading tables are in full view of the clerks."  
  
The Armsmaster grunted, an unhappy sound, and he silently cursed the reticence esquire training bred when it came to complaints. Granted, no one wanted a complainer, there was a difference between a tale-carrier who refused to bear up in the face of pressure, and a refusal to speak out about real problems. Unfortunately, it seemed both Peloren and Elethil were mistaking a lack of actual bruises or injury for the sort of minor, dormitory hazing that usually was tolerated for it generally died away naturally after a certain point, as the esquire companies pulled together.   
  
 _Or because the perpetrators are kept too busy and tired to want to bother with it,_  Ornendil thought. That had been a part of the Masters' strategy this past six-months: keep everyone too busy for that sort of thing to go on, and otherwise remind their fledglings again and again that brotherhood was the foundation of their existence within the Swan Knights.   
  
Unhappily, that strategy did not appear to have worked. The nature of Peloren's and Elethil's offense—an attack in itself against the very principle of fraternity Ornendil and the others continued to preach in an effort to curtail low-level retaliation—was such as to motivate not only the cool indifference he had expected would be maintained towards them, but also the more active harassment no one would yet admit to.  
  
 _And it has bred in them, perhaps, a sense that they deserve nothing more, that they must bear up to it and 'take their punishment,'_  he thought. On the one hand, it was the sort of sentiment he encouraged knights to cultivate—a knight had to be able to own his deeds, whatever they might be. It was a point of honor, and an essential responsibility in men who held the power of life and death in battle or in any situation where weapons were drawn. On the other hand, in this instance, it was hampering their reintegration into the group as much as the pranks and harassment of their peers. 'Fraternal correction,' taken together with the masters' and sergeants' own policy of making this term a hard one for them, had conspired to make the only clear message 'suffer in silence.'  
  
"Mayhap we should speak to the lads," Théorwyn said, after a moment. "Tell them that they ought to come to us if there is trouble."  
  
At this, Illian snorted. "You're younger than I am, Théorwyn—you remember life in these halls. If you knew the masters were out to make your term hard, and you knew your peers were more or less concerned to put you in the place they've deemed you belong, would you say a word? Even if you were drawn aside and told to speak?"   
  
"I've spoken with Kendrion," Ornendil added, "and also with Valandil. Kendrion wants the matter resolved, but he agrees with Illian and believes that at this point, a direct confrontation and lecture would be unlikely to do more than drive matters underground. We can speak with the sergeants about letting up a bit where Peloren and Elethil are concerned—we can do this, and I shall, and that should at least ease some of the pressure. But it shall not ease all of it. There are still the other esquires to deal with, and there again, I suspect a direct approach may fail."  
  
"Would it?" Théorwyn countered, glancing aside at Illian. "Why should we not be direct? We have always held that we have the final word on what counts as 'correction.' If we speak with the sergeants and order them to put a halt to it, then we can come down on whomever we catch. For that matter, we know already who it is likely to be—Faldion and his friends make no secret of their dislike of Peloren and Elethil. Why not come down on them?"  
  
"Because though we suspect, we have never caught any of them at it," Illian sighed. "And this sort of thing does not take place unless there is broad support for it among the esquires. It may be but a few who are actually harassing them, but for every one who is active, there are three more who approve and keep quiet, even under pressure."  
  
"We could station the sergeants in the hall at night," Théorwyn suggested, though he did not sound particularly pleased with the idea.  
  
"If I thought there might be a real danger to either of them, I would," Ornendil replied. "But after Andrahar, I very much doubt anyone would lay an offending finger on them with intent to do real harm. No, they'll keep it to the sorts of mischief that have never brought worse than a few days' punishment, if that."  
  
"But we surely must do something!" Théorwyn pressed, and Ornendil sighed.  
  
"Aye, we must. And I will have the sergeants patrol more often, particularly at night. And come the new term, there will be no tolerance of pranks or mischief. I do not wish to send someone up to face Valandil for harmless fun, but I will do it if it means Peloren and Elethil get a little sleep now and again."  
  
"But even with those measures in place," Illian said quietly, "that will not solve the problem entirely. For Elethil and Peloren have never—not once—complained. They may be lying—they most certainly are lying about how they come to fall into ditches and filthy stalls or why they are late on any given morning or between lunch and classes—but that does not change the fact that we have never questioned their word. We cannot tell the others to leave them alone if, for all we are given to know, they have been having no trouble save what they incur from us. For that matter, what would you do, Ornendil, if you pressed them, and they continued to lie? Would you charge them with dishonorable insubordination, as the Code requires? And if you did not, how would the others take that failure?"  
  
The Armsmaster grimaced at that, for it was, indeed, a valid point, and no doubt one that Elethil and Peloren had already considered. Illian was no doubt right that they would hold to their lies, for consistency's sake, if only because to admit otherwise was to admit to having lied, and given their precarious status, that might well be enough to see them sent home at this point.   
  
"Peloren and Elethil are less than one year from being knighted," he said at length. "They are already past their majority. If they say all is well, then I will take their word for it. In the mean time, we will do what we can to curb abuses of fraternal correction. We cannot prevent everything, but we will hope that without the pressure from sergeants and officers, Peloren and Elethil may reconsider their course and come to speak with us when next something happens, as they ought to do. In the meantime, gentlemen," he said, changing topics, "we have another matter to consider that may well complicate matters. Another of our black swans is coming home."  
  
There was a moment's silence, ere understanding dawned. "Andrahar is returning?" Illian asked.  
  
"I just had word of it from the Prince and the Captain," Ornendil confirmed. Théorwyn uttered something foul in Rohirric under his breath, and the Master of Records rubbed at his temples in a pained fashion. Andrahar's training had been a headache for all of them, for all his formidable talent and endurance, and the incident two summers ago had sent them scrambling to decide what to do with him in the aftermath. They had readily agreed it would be best to send him north to Minas Tirith, to complete his training in relative peace among blooded knights whose experience would in any case be a better match for their brilliant if difficult student than his age-mates. How to bring him home, however, was a problem no one had yet solved, and if Andrahar's loyalty and competence could no longer be in any doubt, neither these things, nor his unique qualifications for the mission into Harad had been the sole motives for acceding to Thorongil's request to take the lad south.  
  
However, there were some things to be said for his imminent return, and Ornendil gestured placatingly to his fellows. "His return may add to our troubles, it is true, but there are other matters that may play to our favor when it comes to bringing him into the ranks: firstly, Imrahil will be reinstated for the next term. His ship is due to arrive by Mettarë, and the Prince and the Princess believe he should be able to manage himself now that the Elves have cured him."  
  
"That is good to hear," Illian said. "But how is this especially helpful to us?"  
  
"It is not—yet. But consider: Imrahil has always been Andrahar's champion, and his guide in settling into Dol Amroth. I do not doubt the Heir's presence and patronage in that regard will continue to serve Andrahar well, for all that he now outranks Imrahil. Ordinarily, they would see little of each other, for with esquire duties, Imrahil will be kept busy, and Andrahar will have his own tasks in whatever company Valandil assigns him to. However, it occurs to me that we ought to foster a more regular contact between them. For Imrahil can help Andrahar settle, and perhaps even settle with the rest of the esquires."  
  
At this, Illian and Théorwyn frankly stared at him as if he had gone mad. "Your pardon, Ornendil, but what makes you think he can accomplish such wonders if he has not been able to do so in the past three years?" Théorwyn demanded.  
  
"Several things. Firstly," Ornendil began, "Andrahar's reputation did rise somewhat when the true tale of what happened in the  _Sea Star_  became known. Imrahil swore by him, and even apologized publicly to him—and Adrahil did not have to prompt it. For that matter, secondly, the Prince's thanks goes far among those of us sworn to serve him. You know that, and that a blooded knight is less likely to care what Andrahar's origins are after so clear a demonstration of faith from the Prince. So he ought to have an easier time settling into his company than he might have otherwise. Too, this recent trip to Harad, if Thorongil's report is favorable, will only lift him higher. He may finally have a chance to look a peer in the eye, and for someone of Andrahar's pride and position, that ought to mean much.  
  
"Which leads me to say that, thirdly, with all of that to stand upon, he should be able to face the esquires. Particularly if he has Imrahil to steady him, he ought to be able to do it—and indeed, we need him to do it. They will be his peers one day, and if he is to stay on with us, then it behooves us to use him well, so that our fledglings learn to respect him early. We do not want divisions in our ranks forming about him—no more than we have already. And since there will always be more esquires entering the ranks, then we must see to it that he comes to terms with them early, as well."  
  
"Am I to understand you wish to make him one of your assistants?" Illian asked, then.  
  
"Aye, that is what I plan to do. He deserves the chance, and if it turns out he can teach, then we profit by him. And he must learn to command others some day—he may as well begin here, and while he is at it, face those who wronged him, and reach some accommodation with them."  
  
"I do not know, Ornendil," the Master of Records said, frowning slightly. "I do not deny that what you have said has much of truth in it. But is it truly wise to force him to deal,  _now_ , with students for the first time, with settling into a new company,  _and_  with the offense Elethil and Peloren committed against him, all at once? You say Imrahil will help steady him, but Imrahil is no older than he is, and younger in many ways, however canny he is in his friendships."   
  
"Théorwyn?" Ornendil shifted his gaze to the other, and raised his chin slightly, soliciting his opinion.  
  
The Master of Horses frowned, then sighed, tugging gently at a stray strand of hair—brown, not black, courtesy of his mother's people, and from the look on his face, she was much on his mind in that moment. Finally: "He is not one to turn from a challenge, our Haradric black swan. But I agree with Illian," he said, with manifest reluctance. "Andrahar is the sort to solve things with a sword, and while that is well and good for what we've made him for, it does not serve so well in this sort of matter, where he has nearly always had Imrahil to speak for him. Now he will be set over Imrahil and needs must speak for himself, but what comes of that seems to be either a warning or an outright challenge from all I've ever seen. If it is reconciliation you want and an end to division, I fear you may be asking too much of him. Of all of them, in truth."  
  
"Perhaps I am," the Armsmaster conceded. "But consider this: they wish to be knights. Andrahar  _is_  a knight. And if a man wishes to wear that belt, then he must be prepared to be out of his depth at times. For we do not choose what obligations come to us, gentlemen, we never have."  
  
Ornendil paused a moment, eyeing first Illian and then Théorwyn, ere he continued. "Yes, it will be hard on them to be thrown together, when all of them are adrift. But we do not have a choice: we cannot be a company divided. Andrahar lies at the heart of our divisions, and I fear he always will so long as war with Harad hovers over us. If I have come to see that I may not blame him wholly for such strife as has racked us since he entered our ranks, neither may I let matters stand as they are. And if they are to change, then we must find a way to make him ours, and that cannot happen by carefully holding him apart from all those who may find his presence offensive, or by shielding him or Elethil or Peloren from the consequences of past divisions. It does no one good, especially not them.   
  
"Let them face each other, therefore, and let us use Andrahar as well as we can—we owe it to him, but also to ourselves as a company, for so long as he is here among us, we shall always face this trial when the new esquires come up against him. Imrahil's presence will help matters, I think, and since it is clear to me that those two will be with each other for as long as it is given to them, let them learn now how they must help each other, for all our sakes."   
  
"And what if," Illian asked quietly, voicing the concern that had lain quietly to one side throughout this argument, "in the course of this learning something serious should happen between Andrahar and Peloren and Elethil?"  
  
"Then I hope for all their sakes that it will not happen with a weapon in reach of Andrahar," Ornendil replied.  
  
"It would be student against teacher, however junior, if it did, Ornendil," Illian stressed.   
  
"I know, my friend. And I know, too, something of the way of honor among Haradrim. If something of that sort were to happen, then it would be my head for putting Andrahar over them. You know very well that I opposed training him for the strife it would bring, and also because he had no notion of the difference between his ways and ours, and I feared I could not guarantee his behavior. But it was an order that was given to me, not a choice," the Armsmaster replied, with a wintry little smile. "My training may well be flawed by the doubts I had of him, but in any case, it is what I have given him, and now 'tis time to trust it, or else admit to the Prince that we were wrong to elevate him even as far as knight-probationer."  
  
At this, Illian simply spread his hands, surrendering the argument. Théorwyn inclined his head slightly, as well, and Ornendil gave a sharp nod. "Then we are agreed," he concluded. "I will inform the Prince of our decision with regard to Andrahar, and the Captain as well. Théorwyn, send word to the sergeants and tell them I want a word with all of them later tonight. Illian, I want you to take the first week back to lecture specifically on fraternal correction and what that means. I need to consider what sort of apprenticeship I can manage for Andrahar. I think perhaps Master Harthil may have a place for him, even if I cannot convince the Captain."   
  
And as they rose, he finished: "There is much in this that we cannot do for them, but let us make this work, gentlemen, as well as we can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Isabeau for providing information about various martial exercises you can do with horses, and general information on horse behavior. I also have benefited from the essays from an online site that address the idea of horsemanship in terms that make sense of it as a relationship. Foolishly, I did not immediately bookmark or copy-paste the URL into a file, and I cannot find them anymore. 
> 
> Also, the bit where Peloren remembers the attack on Andrahar is more or less lifted straight out of chapter 2 of "Kin-strife."


	3. Homecoming

It was a wet, windy evening as a naval ship flying the colors of Dol Amroth slowly slid into a berth at the great docks. She was a smaller vessel, the sort the Prince preferred for carrying messages at speed, her light frame and broad sails giving her the sea-legs to outrun the pirates that preyed upon merchants and even larger warships. Upon her prow, a dark-robed figure dressed in Haradric fashion that suggested a merchant of modest prosperity, leaned upon the railing, staring at the rain-hazy silhouettes of towers in the fast-fading light.   
  
 _Home at last,_  Andrahar thought, through the stirring of ambivalent emotion. On the one hand, after a year abroad, in Minas Tirith and in Umbar, those towers were a welcome sight—more welcome, perhaps, than he had thought possible, particularly after so recent and prolonged a stay in his native land. On the other hand, the weather he could have done without. Several weeks of a southern winter had spoiled him for such cold, for although of necessity he had grown accustomed to it to a degree, he did not care for it, even if Dol Amroth's winters were far milder than Minas Tirith's.   
  
 _And still they are too cold,_  he thought, sighing softly at the visceral memory of the heat off Hurrhabi's sun-baked streets. He had nearly forgotten what it was like to feel always warm enough.   
  
His companion upon this journey, however, seemed to find the steady drizzle refreshing. Andrahar was aware of him a moment before Thorongil joined him, pushing his hood back as he breathed deeply. Like Andrahar, the captain was dressed in the manner of the Haradrim, though his outfit was that of a mercenary.   
  
"The best disguise is often the one nearest to the truth," Thorongil had jested when they had settled on their respective roles. "A merchant and his guard-for-hire ought to do nicely."   
  
And it had worked remarkably well on a number of levels, allowing Andrahar to move freely about the market spaces, whether in the old, elegant, wealthy quarters of the city or the rough-and-tumble dock districts he knew well from his ill-spent youth. With a mercenary at his side, none troubled them, and Thorongil's disguise afforded an excuse should he err in his speech, for not all mercenaries were Haradrim by birth. It had even allowed them to brave the naval offices and shipwrights, on the pretext of attempting to gain a military contract, which had proved useful. And Thorongil had proven himself a swift student of Harad's ways, seeming to disappear into his costume after but a few days.  
  
Save on one point, that is, for unlike Andrahar, the captain had found the heat oppressive. "Even Gondor can be somewhat too warm for me at times," Thorongil had told him. "As cold as Dol Amroth is when compared to Harad, so cold is Eriador compared to Belfalas."  
  
"Then remind me never to visit," Andrahar had replied, and got a chuckle for his cheek.   
  
Now, though, the captain appeared quite happy enough with Gondor's grey skies and chill winds, and the rain apparently troubled him not at all. After a moment, Thorongil glanced sideways at him, and quirked a brow. "Homesick?" he asked.  
  
"Aye. I mean, no, not for Harad," Andrahar hastily corrected, and gave the captain a bit of a narrow-eyed glare, as Thorongil grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder.   
  
"I know where your loyalties lie, never fear. But we cannot help but miss the land that raised us," the captain replied, and from the slightly wistful tone to his voice, Andrahar guessed he was speaking from experience in that moment.   
  
"I will miss the sun," Andrahar admitted after a moment. "And it was... pleasant... to hear Haradric again, and all the time." That had been unexpected, for he had been taught very young to speak Westron, and did not consider it any longer to be foreign to him. Indeed, he had only rarely had cause to find his second tongue strange to him in all the time he had been in Dol Amroth. Thus it had surprised him how good it had felt to sink into his mother-tongue again, to have no reason to speak anything but Haradric. It was as if a dam had been removed, or a light unshuttered; a strange, freeing feeling—relief? exultation?—it had been, though then as now, he found himself at a loss to describe it, though not for want of trying...   
  
"It puts all in order again, does it not?" Thorongil said, smiling faintly. "Makes everything familiar, inside and out—suits your thoughts to feeling, and makes the world shine." Andrahar must have been gaping slightly at him, or else frowning in surprise to hear so glib a response to his unvoiced struggle, for the captain shrugged slightly, and explained, "I was raised to both Sindarin and Westron, but my people spoke the elven tongue, mostly. Even in Gondor, there are not many who speak it daily, but there are some. After all my time away, such company is, indeed... 'pleasant.'"  
  
"Yes, it is," Andrahar agreed, a bit abruptly, for he was turning the captain's words over in his mind. Then: "I did not know that about you."  
  
"One speaks as all others do in a strange land," Thorongil replied, then gripped the railing against the ship's slight shudder as the anchor struck shoals and the chain pulled taut. The sails had already gone down, and sailors began shouting, throwing ropes to the dock-workers, and some were bringing the gangplank. Thorongil, seeing this, gave Andrahar a nod, and said briskly, "Time to go."   
  
In response, Andrahar leaned slightly to his left to grab his pack, and he slung it over his shoulder. Thorongil had his already upon his back, and so the two of them made their way over to have a word with the captain, ere they disembarked.   
  
"As promised, Dol Amroth in a week's time," the man said.   
  
"She is quite the swift one. Our thanks for the smooth journey, Captain," Thorongil replied.   
  
"My pleasure. A merry Yule to you both," the other said, and then left them to the final leg of their journey. Waiting for them just beyond the docks was a carriage, whose driver wore Adrahil's livery, and who, after squinting at them a bit with a lantern, welcomed them back to Gondor, then said:  
  
"The Prince sends word that he looks forward to dining with you both this evening. If you would, then...?" He held the door open, and the two travelers climbed obediently within.   
  
It was a swift, silent journey up to the keep, for neither Thorongil nor Andrahar were the sort of men to make conversation to fill a silence, and so they each lapsed contentedly into their own thoughts for a time.   
  
 _Will Imri be home for Yule? Or is he still with those confounded elves?_  Andrahar wondered, feeling a flash of searing indignation at the very thought of Gildor Inglorion, whose refusal even to consider allowing him to accompany Imrahil had earned Andrahar's undying enmity, never mind that his own lords had had other plans for him. It was one thing for Andrahar to bow to his sworn lord's will to part him for a time from Imrahil, whom he still considered his primary responsibility; or to bow to Imrahil himself, who had been strangely insistent upon Andrahar's participation, despite his obvious fears for his oath-brother's safety. But it was another matter entirely for some arrogant elven outsider to take it upon himself to banish him.  
  
"Your presence would hamper matters," the Elf had said loftily, thereby adding outrage to injury.   
  
 _But perhaps by now, Imrahil is free of them. I hope so, at least!_  Andrahar thought. If not, he supposed he would have to endure, and strive alone to settle at last into Dol Amroth's ranks. At least in the event that Imrahil were still among the Elves, he might attempt to do his settling without Princess Finduilas's well-intentioned if ultimately frustrating attention!  
  
 _And I wonder what news might greet me on that front?_  he wondered. Had Finduilas acceded (he tried not to think of it as 'succumbing') to Lord Denethor's suit? Or had the man not even moved yet to ask her hand? It was probably unseemly for a junior knight to find that amount of gleeful scorn in contemplating that latter possibility...  _Yet another in the list of habits unbecoming a baseborn son,_  he thought, but could not bring himself to regret it.   
  
Still, Andrahar determinedly thrust such speculation aside, for truly, it was not his business.  _The duties of a Swan Knight are, and that, my lad, ought to prove challenge enough for you,_  he berated himself.   
  
For if he had been assigned to the Princess's escort, it had not been only the whim of Finduilas, to take her brother's 'waif' under her wing once Imrahil had been put to sea again, that had gained him that placement. The well-loved bastard son of a great lord survived by his ability to calculate, and there were any number of more qualified (and better-born) knights Finduilas's father might have given her who would have made matters somewhat less difficult with Lord Denethor. Adrahil's parting wish—"Come back to us a knight, Andrahar"—had made it only too clear: the Prince had been concerned to keep him out of the clutches of the Dol Amroth esquires awhile longer, until he had completed his training and could face them with a knighthood to stand upon.   
  
And while it had taken longer than anticipated (and this at least was most definitely due to the Princess's whim), he could at last fulfill that command: this trip to Harad would see him finally leave the ranks of the knights-probationer. Though the mission had been bloodless where it mattered, they had encountered some difficulty on their journey when crossing the border out of Harondor one night, where a fight had ensued when they had been unable to convince the commander of the small, Haradric border patrol that they were not smugglers.   
  
Not that their being smugglers had been so much the problem—there were always men on either side of the border who were willing to enrich themselves on such illicit trade, and of necessity, some of them were officers in the armies of either Harad or Gondor. The commander had clearly been one such. The problem had been that they had not been carrying anything he had been willing to accept as 'export tax.'   
  
Undoubtedly it was a ploy the commander had used regularly with the lesser merchants (which was all Thorongil and Andrahar could afford to pretend to be): accuse them of smuggling, raise a fuss over the lack of suitable goods, threaten arrest and detention; then, when the 'smugglers' protested and actually began offering payment in a desperate effort to appease the commander and secure their release, switch sides, play the offended agent, and in the midst of it, have his guards seize and slay them. Goods could then be confiscated, witnesses silenced that might warn other traders, law-abiding or otherwise, to avoid his route, and a sorrowful report could be sent onward: merchant found slain, goods stolen. In point of fact, they would go into his own coffers, and perhaps be passed about his little company, all of it without being reported.  
  
It was a good scheme, considered in a certain light. However, neither Andrahar nor Thorongil had harbored any desire to see it succeed. It had been a lucky thing the patrol had been so small, for it had meant that they had been able to take care of those in the commander's tent, where they had been brought for questioning (and their eventual, planned demise), in relative privacy, and with surprise on their side.   
  
That had given them a precious few minutes to get out, to free a pair of horses and send them pounding off into the night, which had led half the patrol off to chase them down. The other half had all run to see what had become of the commander, and in the uproar and confusion, their would-be prey had slain another two guards on the quiet and untethered the rest of the horses. Choosing two for themselves, they had mounted up, and then Thorongil had cried out in a strange tongue, and instantly, the horses—all of them—had bolted, leaving the remainder of the patrol in utter confusion and without the means to follow them.   
  
And so, thanks to that bit of bad business, Andrahar would return to Dol Amroth a full-fledged Swan Knight.  _And how will that play out in the ranks?_  he wondered.   
  
"Andrahar?" The young knight blinked, shaking himself out of his contemplation to find Thorongil watching him. "Is everything well with you?"  
  
"Of course, sir," Andrahar replied quickly.   
  
"You seem rather pensive," the captain said.  
  
"It took me some time to find my place here," Andrahar said after a moment's hesitation. "Now I have been gone a year and more—who knows how long it will take me to find it again?"  
  
At that, the captain had grunted softly, but said no more, for the carriage was slowing. It came shortly to a halt, and almost immediately, the door was opened to reveal a page standing there, his hood drawn up against the rain.   
  
"My lords," the boy said politely, waving them out. Andrahar deferred to Thorongil, then rose to follow him out. As he joined the captain in the courtyard of the keep, however, Thorongil laid a hand on his shoulder. And as he began towing him along toward the welcome light of the open door that promised warmth, he said quietly:  
  
"I doubt me you shall have to find a place in Dol Amroth; rather, I think you will find one waiting for you," he said, even as they entered the hall and were hailed by another of Adrahil's servants.   
  
It was a prophetic utterance, as matters turned out.   
  


* * *

  
  
Andrahar had half expected that Adrahil would wish to hear the news as soon as possible, and so while he had bathed and dressed himself in the livery a page delivered, he had begun mentally to put together a brief report of their journey.   
  
 _Perhaps, however, I ought to have started that task in the carriage,_  he thought,  _rather than spending that time on more trivial matters._  For he was still debating whether to include certain points as he made his way toward the Prince's suite. At a certain moment, the click of his boot heels against the stone floor was joined by another set of footfalls, and then Thorongil appeared from around a corner, frowning as he struggled with a recalcitrant button on the cuff of his sleeve.   
  
"Andra," he murmured, by way of somewhat preoccupied greeting.  
  
"Captain." Then, slightly more hesitantly: "Should I...?" and he gestured vaguely at Thorongil's wrist.   
  
"Please." They paused, Andrahar addressed himself to the offending article of clothing for a few moments, then gave the sleeve a final tug, testing the button. It held, and so he stepped back with a nod. "Thank you," Thorongil said, mouth quirking. "I do not see why Gondor insists on these sleeves—ties work well enough in Rohan!"  
  
"What about the North?"  
  
"Four layers of clothing against the wind will hide such telltales," the captain replied casually, though his eyes twinkled. Andrahar snorted and shook his head as they resumed walking, and he resumed his interrupted construction of a report...  
  
"You still seem pensive," Thorongil commented. This time, Andrahar answered:  
  
"I am trying to put our journey in some order, should the Prince ask about it."  
  
"Ah." The young knight gave his erstwhile traveling companion a suspicious look.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing. Let us not keep Prince Adrahil waiting." Andrahar gave him a suspicious look which was lost on the older man, who had lengthened his stride and so quickly outstripped Andrahar, who was obliged to trot a bit to draw even again.   
  
Not that there seemed to have been any need to rush: upon their arrival, Adrahil rose, with Olwen on his arm, and two other blue-clad figures rose with them. Captain-Commander Valandil and Armsmaster Ornendil stood by silently as the Prince greeted his guests.  
  
"We have wondered very often about you both since you left," Adrahil told them, clasping arms first with Thorongil, and then moving to Andrahar, who started to bow out of habit, but was prevented by the Prince's hands upon his arms. Straightening his shoulders slightly, the young Swan Knight lifted his chin, gazing up at the Prince, who smiled warmly back at him, and his grip tightened. "It was good to hear news at last that you were well," he said.  _Especially you,_  that grip conveyed, and Andrahar lowered his eyes slightly.   
  
"I fear supper is not quite laid," Olwen said then, when she had made her greetings. "But perhaps," she suggested, glancing from Andrahar to Thorongil and then back again, "you could tell us something of your journey while we wait. I hope it was not too difficult."  
  
And since the Princess was looking right at him, Andrahar replied, "It was not, your highnesss. Matters went very smoothly, in fact."  
  
"Save for a bit of trouble with customs," Thorongil added then, and Olwen turned an inquisitive look upon him.   
  
"Customs?" she asked.  
  
"We had some difficulty with a Haradric border patrol," Andrahar explained quickly.  
  
"At the crossings?" Adrahil was frowning.  
  
"No, my lord prince, we had no trouble with the Poros garrison. 'Twas a little before that that we were picked up by the patrol to Harad side. It was a small company."  
  
"Small or no, it might have gone ill with only two to face it," Valandil interjected. "It seems you were lucky."  
  
"Indeed we were, sir," Thorongil responded. "We got out for the price of a white belt for this young man, if I am not mistaken," the captain continued, gesturing then to Andrahar, and four pairs of eyes swiveled to settle upon Andrahar with great interest. "A fair trade for all, I think," Thorongil concluded, returning a slight smile in response to Andrahar's slightly pained expression.   
  
For Andrahar had come to learn in their time together that although Thorongil could be a sober, somber, even taciturn man, he  _did_  have a touch of what he could only call Rohirric lyricism to him. Any opportunity to tell a story was one he tended to exploit, sometimes more subtly, so that it was not until the last line that one realized what he did, other times more forthrightly so. It was a habit that occasionally reminded him of Imrahil, which ought to have pleased him, but for some reason, he took it less well from Thorongil. Particularly when  _he_  figured in one of the tellings.   
  
 _As now!_  the Southron thought.  _He was no doubt planning this when we met in the hall!_  Perhaps it was because whenever _Imrahil_  undertook to embellish some episode of his life—the Heir preferred to call it 'giving it its best face'—there was no question but that he would tell it from beginning to end, and the middle would be taken care of as well, no matter how exaggerated matters became. Whereas with Thorongil (in perhaps another hold over from his stay in Rohan), Andrahar might at any moment be called upon to participate. Nor could he ever be certain the man would not abandon him in the telling, leaving him laboring under the awkward obligation to match the cleverness of the opening chapter—an impossible task, he always felt.   
  
Which, he suspected, was precisely what had just happened. Having set him up, the captain appeared ready to bow out and leave the rest to him. Moreover the Prince and Princess, and the Swan Knights' two most senior authorities were all gazing expectantly at him, and so with an inward sigh, he began to give the account of their little misadventure, after but a moment's hesitation falling back upon the far more dry and concise report he had already assembled in his mind.   
  
Fortunately, his audience did not appear to be dismayed by this rather more pedantic style, and when he had finished the account, Adrahil and the officers of the Swan Knights exchanged pleased looks, while Olwen smiled at him. "A fair trade indeed," the Prince agreed after a moment, and glanced approvingly at Thorongil, who merely inclined his head. "Gondor owes you both thanks for good service—and Harad as well, if only she knew it."  
  
At that moment, a servant poked his head in from the next room to announce that supper was laid, which pronouncement brought an end to the discussion for the time being. Adrahil and Olwen led their guests into the dining room and took up their places on the west side of the round table. The others fell in about them—Valandil upon Olwen's left, followed by Ornendil, then Andrahar, and finally Thorongil, who ended up in the guest's seat on Adrahil's right as the only guest not liege-bound to Dol Amroth.   
  
Once the standing silence had been observed, they seated themselves, and as dishes were passed, conversation was continued. Much of it did center on the doings in Harad, and Andrahar endeavored to answer whatever questions were put to him, but otherwise was largely content to let Thorongil tell the tale: there was no contesting the fact that he made it more interesting than Andrahar could have.   
  
Besides which, Andrahar found himself feeling a touch self-conscious, for about halfway through the meal, he noticed Ornendil and Valandil were watching him. It was discreet—a quietly scrutinizing look ever and anon that lasted just a little too long—yet it was somewhat disconcerting. Were they expecting him to speak more? Or was it some other matter? _One pertaining to last summer?_  Plainly he could not simply turn to them and ask, and so, self-consciousness tending to irritate him if he dwelt upon it overmuch, he attended to his supper and tried to listen instead to the captain and ignore the furtive stares.  
  
When at length the topic of their trip to Harad had been sufficiently discussed, Adrahil and Olwen, and also occasionally Valandil and Ornendil, told of events in Dol Amroth. Andrahar learned that Corsair raids had become more frequent in the late season this year, which had kept the navy and the Swan Knights busy. The doings of the court in response to such predations were lively, and it was then Andrahar learned that in fact, the Steward's Heir had finally made his move to ask for Finduilas's hand... an asking that had unfolded in a rather unintentionally comical manner.  
  
Andrahar decided right then that he could, without reservation, forgive Finduilas every dull afternoon spent attending her on a shopping trip for the indelible image of Lord Denethor proposing marriage on a seasick stomach. And although it would not be proper to laugh too hard, perhaps, he could not help but notice he was not the only one laughing into his hand: Thorongil's eyes were bright, and his shoulders shaking a bit with the effort not to surrender to the fit.  
  
But finally, as the discussion wended its way through Finduilas's impending marriage and the plans being made for that, Andrahar could no longer restrain the question that had plagued him since his arrival in Dol Amroth:   
  
"My lord prince?" he asked, and Adrahil raised his brows questioningly. "What of Imrahil? Is he well?"  
  
"We are expecting word from him shortly," Adrahil replied. "It ought to come in time for Yule."  
  
Which was apparently all the answer he would get, and the young knight determinedly mastered his disappointment, nodding politely in thanks. Talk continued for another half hour or so before at last, the Prince and Princess, expressing their regrets, rose to retire. "For with the holiday upcoming, there is much that must be completed ere then. By all means, stay if you wish, and avail yourselves of the brandy," Adrahil invited. "Good night captains, Andrahar."  
  
The guests rose, murmured their good nights, and waited until the royal couple had departed, before, on unspoken agreement, they began to say their farewells to each other. Nevertheless, given the looks he had been getting all evening, Andrahar was not wholly surprised when Ornendil touched his shoulder. "If you would, Andrahar, there is a matter we—" and here he gestured to Valandil "—would like to discuss with you. It should not take long."  
  
"Of course, Armsmaster," Andrahar replied.   
  
"Thank you. Good night, Captain Thorongil," Valandil said then, "I hope we shall be able to speak further before you leave."  
  
"Alas, I fear shall be taking ship on the morrow for Minas Tirith," Thorongil replied. "Another time perhaps. Good night, gentlemen. Andrahar, it has been a pleasure and an honor. You have my very great thanks for all of your help, and should you come to Minas Tirith again, I hope we may continue our sparring matches." Andrahar bowed, got a smile for his courtesy, and with that, Thorongil departed, leaving the three Swan Knights alone.   
  
"Come," Valandil said, and led the way out of the Prince's suite. Andrahar followed obediently, and at length, they arrived at Valandil's office, where two more Swan Knights stood waiting: Masters Théorwyn and Illian nodded gravely and murmured their greetings as the others approached. Valandil unlocked the door and ushered them all within; chairs were pulled up in a circle, and all seated themselves at the Captain's bidding. For Andrahar's part, curiosity and suspicion commingled, and were definitely more than just piqued, for what would the Captain and Masters of the Swan Knights want with him, that they would invite someone so junior as himself into what appeared to be a rather... grim... council?   
  
"Thank you for joining us tonight, Andrahar," Valandil said. "I apologize for the late hour, but we wished to have this in order as soon as possible."  
  
"What matter, sir, if I may ask?" Andrahar inquired cautiously.   
  
"Ornendil?" Valandil glanced aside at his colleague, who took up the tale, though from his expression, it was not one he was pleased to tell.  
  
"It concerns esquire training, at least in its form," the Armsmaster said, which was an odd turn of phrase, and Andrahar's brow creased as he puzzled over it a moment. "You must know your own skill as a swordsman, Andrahar: men who have a gift for something are very rarely unaware of it, particularly if that gift has been trained, as yours has. It has been apparent to all of us that you will be among the best in the land when it comes to blade-work—I certainly will not be teaching you much else, if anything. I do not have the means."   
  
He paused a moment, and Andrahar inclined his head. "Thank you, sir. Though I hardly think I have mastered everything yet that you have taught."  
  
"That may be so as regards the breadth of forms I have introduced you to and trained you in," Ornendil acknowledged. "But the mastery you desire in any one of them is one you shall have to reach on your own, or perhaps from further studying with your Captain Thorongil, who, if I am any judge, may be the only one in Gondor at this time who can truly teach you. For that reason, if you do desire to study with him, then in six months' time, I would support a petition to the Prince to transfer you back to Minas Tirith. Any and all of us here would do so."  
  
There was a scattering of nods and murmured assents around the circle, and Andrahar, now feeling rather bewildered, though not unhappy in his bewilderment, nodded. "Thank you. I think I may wish to," he said. But then, quite convinced the news could not be all good, he asked: "But if I may ask, sir, why after six months?"  
  
"Quite frankly because we have need of you here, and would be remiss to let you leave earlier," Ornendil said, and his tone grew more grim. The Armsmaster folded his hands in his lap as he explained, "Your skill makes you desirable as an instructor for the esquires; if I have not made you aware of that before, it was at least in part because I had misgivings about your ability to command their respect, given the, ah, general sentiment in which you were held.  
  
"However," he continued quickly, "you are a Swan Knight now, and command is part of that calling and duty. In any battle, you should be able to step in and lead—indeed, you  _must_  be able to, regardless of how men may view your origins. It is not too early to begin learning to put the theory of command that you have been taught into practice, and teaching others requires you to be able to command them.  
  
"Therefore, for the next term, you will be serving as an arms instructor, under my supervision," Ornendil said. "For that is the last thing I can teach you, and it behooves me to do so, for the sake of our company that can benefit by you."  
  
"I am yours to command in this as in all things, sir," Andrahar replied, quietly.  _Now for the rest..._    
  
"There is one other thing that is vitally important for you to know, before you take up your duties in this area," the Armsmaster warned, as if on cue. "You may remember that after last year's incident, Prince Adrahil granted two of your attackers the opportunity to rejoin us in a year's time: Peloren and Elethil chose to accept that offer. If you take up this task, you will bear responsibility for their training, and we expect you to teach them as you would any other esquire."  
  
The Armsmaster paused a moment, eyeing Andrahar, who absorbed this news in the grip of a rather sinking sensation. _Peloren and Elethil._  They had never been the worst of his detractors—even after their attack upon him, they still stood lower than their four more highly born peers for viciousness.   
  
 _Still, am I now to teach them along with the others? Just as if nothing had ever happened between us?_  A spasm of anger gripped him, and he bit his tongue against it. For as he stared at the Armsmaster, who looked back challengingly, he realized he had no choice. A knight’s life, as he had heard a hundred times and more in the past four years, was a life of duty and service, and as one did not choose one’s talents, one also did not choose one’s duty. Where duty respected the Code, "I will not serve" was unthinkable, and the more so to one who had been raised to Harad’s strict ways. For one born to serve to refuse his destiny… there was no place among men for such a one.   
  
"Then if they are my students, I shall do my duty by them, Armsmaster," he replied, even as he ruthlessly crushed under a mental heel the temptation to disgrace himself and beg off this chore.   
  
"We expected no less of you," Ornendil replied. "But in this instance, we must ask more of you than simply duty. We need you not simply to teach them fairly; we need you to rehabilitate them in the eyes of their fellows."  
  
Andrahar stiffened at that. "Me, sir?" he asked.   
  
"Yes. We had hoped the Prince's justice would suffice to convince others they had paid their debt, but it has not. And after some discussion, it has become apparent that our efforts alone are not enough, either, and cannot be," Ornendil said, as he caught and held Andrahar’s eyes. "Some faults cannot be laid to rest without the assistance of the one offended."  
  
"And you wish me to…" Andrahar cast about for the word.  
  
"We need you to make it clear that the matter is behind the three of you. That you respect them, whether or not you like them."  
  
"It would have to come one day or another, Andrahar," Valandil said quietly then. "Understand: short of a training accident or a spectacular failure of discipline, they will be knights one day, and soon. They will be your peers then. And once that happens, they come under my command, and the matter gains in gravity. A company of knights must trust each other, or it threatens our ability to act as one body on the field. If that happens, we lose knights, not esquires. We cannot afford that. We cannot afford a company riven by mistrust, but in this case, there are many who will not let go of it. But if you do so, then others will follow your lead, or so we hope. Do you understand?"  
  
 _All too clearly,_  Andrahar thought, and tried not to let his dismay show as he nodded. "Yes, sir," he said softly.   
  
"And will you take on this charge?"  
  
"I shall... strive to," Andrahar managed. It was not the answer they wanted—he knew it—but given the turmoil of conflicted, angry emotion within, he could not bring himself honestly to say more than that. Valandil's eyes narrowed, and Andrahar was certain he was about to be prompted to the proper reply, but then he and Ornendil exchanged a look, and the Armsmaster nodded.   
  
"Very well, then," Valandil said, apparently accepting his colleague's judgment. "That must suffice. Thank you, Andrahar." This time, Andrahar merely ducked his head, unwilling to speak. Valandil, however, was not finished yet. "Before we retire for the evening, I would beg your indulgence, gentlemen, to settle one final matter. Andrahar, would you please rise and remove your belt?"  
  
That got his head up again, and after a moment's hesitation, he obeyed. When he had unbuckled it, he gave it into Valandil's waiting hands. The Captain of the Swan Knights rose then, and began carefully removing the sword and the pair of daggers from it, handing them off to Ornendil. Then he took either end in hand, gave it a tug to straighten it, and eyed the length a moment. With a nod, he laid the probationer's belt over one arm and moved to a chest behind his desk. There he knelt, inserted a key, and opened it. After a brief consideration of the contents, the captain reached within and withdrew something. Returning, he handed Andrahar's old belt to Illian, and carefully unrolled the new length of pure, white leather: the white belt of a full-formed knight.  
  
"It is my honor to announce that Andrahar of Umbar, in service to crown and country and all those who depend upon men of knightly virtue for their safety, has proven himself in combat," the captain said. "Acknowledgment is late in coming, for it occurred some weeks ago in Harondor, as Captain Thorongil attested this evening, but it is certainly well-deserved." He gestured to Ornendil, who quickly helped him restore Andrahar's weapons to their proper place. Approaching Andrahar, then, Valandil belted the cincture about the young knight's narrow waist. Once finished, he laid hands upon Andrahar's shoulders and kissed his brow, as brother to brother.   
  
"Be thou a good and faithful knight, as ever thou hast been," he finished, smiling faintly. As the other masters approached, and repeated the gesture, as witnesses traditionally did, roiling feelings settled a bit. For the disconcerting shifts of tone and emotion that evening gave way at last to the realization that they did not simply  _need_  him, but they actually trusted him. That, more so than even when Aerandir had made him a probationer, he was expected now to act the part he had said he desired to have: that of a Swan Knight of Dol Amroth, a member of a brotherhood that ought to endure to death and beyond.   
  
In Harad, there was a proverb:  _Be wary, for the man who receives what he most wants is rarely to be envied._    
  
"For what we want comes often only with things we do not desire at all," his mother had told him when he had been very young. And she had smiled sadly and said: "I had always desired a man such as your father. But see what such desire demands of us?"   
  
The son of a slave who had dared to love a great lord surely ought to need no reminders of that lesson.  _You are a knight of Dol Amroth, just as you wished to be. Gird yourself then, and bear it,_  he told himself, as he murmured his thanks to the Captains.  _You will deal with Peloren and Elethil. Somehow._  Andrahar had no least notion how, but there were six long months ahead of him.   
  
He would have to hope that that was time enough to find a way forward.   
  


* * *

  
  
 _Merry Yule, Pel—Elya_    
  
The brightly painted box atop which the note was laid could hardly be missed: a spot of color in an esquire's otherwise rather drab quarters. Peloren, newly returned from a few hours' work in the stables, had stared at it in puzzlement a moment before gingerly retrieving the note and opening it.  _Elethil must have left it before he was due on hall duty,_  he mused. Setting the note aside, he took the box in hand, shook it gently: inside, something slithered and there was a light _chink!_ , as of something metallic.   
  
"What under the stars...?" he wondered aloud. He and Elethil had always exchanged Yuletide gifts, though usually ahead of the actual day, since Peloren often made a swift journey home to Hathwyn and his family. Also, being esquires whose families were nobility of fairly modest means, and Elethil's much more so than Peloren's, such gifts were usually small things, occasionally edible, and often useful: a jar of Mistress Gilweth's marvelous ointment that helped ease sore muscles, or a bag of candied walnuts, or else a handful of the rare salted green nuts Peloren loved. Or, two years ago, a box of stationery so that Elethil, could respond to his younger sister's innumerable letters regarding her impending marriage, which correspondence had convinced Peloren there was perhaps nothing so troublesome as a wedding. Whatever was in this box, however, it sounded a bit more  _weighty_ , as it were, than Yuletide gifts past.  
  
 _And I have yet to find one for him, either,_  Peloren thought. But that was hardly unusual, Peloren preferring to do his hunting late, though in point of fact, he had not intended to let the matter wait until the very day of Yuletide. But, he rationalized, there would now be plenty to see, and even bargains to be had, and had the easier, with more merchants about, eager to sell their wares before the evening. So he told himself, and had planned last night to go down into the city to discover what might be had as soon as he had finished his morning chores. Therefore, mindful of the fact that he was expected to take a shift on guard duty that afternoon and that he had wanted to spend some time studying the texts Master Harthil had prescribed for the next term, he crossed to his clothespress, quickly gathered what he needed, and then made for the bathroom.   
  
Once there, he quickly scrubbed himself down, making liberal use of the various soaps that were kept on hand for bathers to use in order to get the scent of horse out of his hair and off his skin. When he had done, and dried himself off, he dressed quickly, returned to his room to set his dirty clothing in the basket he kept beneath his bed, and retrieved his purse from the locked trunk. A quick look within assured him he had enough for his needs, and then buckling it to his belt, he combed his fingers through wet hair until he had it more or less neatly pulled back, and tied it off in a queue. Satisfied that he would not be accosted as a disgrace to the Swan Knights, even though he was off duty at the moment and bore nothing to indicate he was an esquire, he made his way out into the nearly empty halls.  
  
The Yule holidays had been blessedly peaceful thus far, as the bulk of the esquires abandoned the keep for the city below and its winter enchantments and fairs. All of the esquires from Dol Amroth and the surrounding countryside had gone home for Yule, and even a few of those from more distant provinces had gone to visit family, provided they lived near enough to make the journey there and back within a week's time. Ordinarily, Peloren would have been among that number, for the sea-route to Hathwyn was just swift enough. But after last year's dire holiday at home, he had declined his father's politely worded, but hardly cordial, invitation, excusing himself on the grounds that he needed to familiarize himself with his new duties as Master Théorwyn's assistant. That had been a rather satisfying letter to write, and had made the prospect of enduring his peers' company more tolerable.   
  
But it appeared fortune was smiling on him for once: with fewer esquires about, and carnival distraction available, his peers seemed content truly to ignore him for once. After an awful term, it was a respite sorely needed, and Peloren had been glad to take advantage of it, enjoying the sense of reprieve unexpectedly granted him as he made the switch to practicing with a knights' squad that his new position and schedule necessitated.  
  
However, it being holidays, he was not expected to spend overmuch time on these. He was limited to light instruction of pages, mostly, with a bit of veterinary care. And of course, for all pages and esquires, there was hall duty, which everyone shared in shifts. But considering that at least half the shift was spent on holiday galley work or else helping to decorate, it almost did not count as duty in Peloren's mind. Even the cool disregard of his fellows during such inevitable gatherings was bearable in light of that. And for a wonder, he was not one of those scheduled to attend upon the Prince this week.  
  
All of which combined to give him more time to himself than he had had in months, and if only his new schedule and Elethil's had been more consonant, he would have counted himself happy enough, given the circumstances. Of course, even had Elethil's schedule coincided with his, he could hardly have taken his friend along today, considering his errand. He supposed he might ask after Celdir and his friends, if he truly desired company, for they had invited him once to join them in their excursions.   
  
But Peloren had managed on some pretext of chores to decline with grace. They had not repeated the offer, and in truth, he was relieved. All things considered, he would rather not spend time with them.  _Still,_  he thought wistfully,  _it would be nice to have company..._  
  
Yet, lonely or not, the holiday hunt for gifts was nevertheless a pleasant enough task, for the folk of Dol Amroth were out in force, braving the cold, clear winter's day to enjoy the festival. There were plenty of things to see and do and taste, and Peloren had no need of a companion to enjoy any of it. He wandered from store to store, booth to booth, peered into boxes and bags, seeking he knew not what yet for Elethil, but certain he would know it when he saw it.   
  
However, his first case through of the merchants' stalls turned up nothing, and a glance skyward showed that it was nearing noon, a fact his stomach affirmed by growling. The cooks at the castle tended to turn esquires out during holidays, knowing there was food aplenty to be found elsewhere, and so rather than depend upon so uncertain a reception, Peloren backtracked through the fair, following the scent of meat pies 'til at last he found the tavern that sold them. It was clearly a popular establishment, for it was teeming with people, and all the tables appeared to be full...  
  
"Peloren?" The esquire turned, surprised, and saw a familiar face standing a little ways away, a tankard of ale in each hand.   
  
"Aldan," Peloren replied, as recognition set in, and he moved to join the other. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Nothing much different from what you're doing here, I'm sure," the older man replied dryly, though he smiled to take the sting out of it. "We thought we would go out for a while, see what the world was doing since it is Yule."  
  
"'We'?" Peloren asked, anxiously glancing about for esquires.   
  
"Come join us, if you like," Aldan invited. "Otherwise, if you're looking for a table, you'll get none 'til this crowd clears out."  
  
"I wouldn't want to make matters awkward—" Peloren started to decline, but Aldan shook his head.  
  
"You won't be," the other assured him. "Come along." With a nod toward the back of the tavern, Aldan began walking, and Peloren, after a moment, began following him. They wove among the tables, carefully avoiding tavern lasses and lads who were dashing about to bring food and drink. Eventually, they reached a table set along one wall, and there sat a bright-eyed, round-faced woman who cocked her head inquisitively at Peloren, ere she smiled up at Aldan.  
  
"My thanks, love," she said, as Aldan slid the tankard before her, and smiling, she laid a hand over his. Then returning her gaze to Peloren, she asked, "Who's this lad, then?"  
  
"Naleth, this is Peloren of Hathwyn, up in Anfalas. Peloren," Aldan said, and his smile would have given it all away even had Naleth not already, "may I introduce my wife, Naleth?"  
  
"A merry Yule to you, mistress," Peloren said politely, and to her amusement, made her a bow. "And well-met, for I have heard much of you."  
  
"Goodness, 'Dan, he's polished like an apple!" she laughed. "Not but what that's expected, I'm sure. You'll have to excuse me, I ought to have been calling you 'lord.' Should have guessed from the clothes."   
  
Peloren glanced down at himself, then aside at Aldan. He had not chosen anything of particular note to wear, preferring warmth and sturdiness over embroidery, but plainly, she was right: Peloren's own outfit was definitely of noticeably finer quality than what his fellow esquire wore. And there was still the dagger he had thrust through his belt—common folk, unless they were craftmasters, did not generally come by weapons with etched hilts, however simple the design.   
  
Recovering himself somewhat, he smiled, and shrugged, and said, "You need not apologize, nor call me 'lord.' So long as we are all esquires, we are told to address each other as brothers. You are Aldan's wife, so surely there is no need for such formalities, mistress."  
  
"Then you can stop calling me 'mistress,' lad. 'Naleth' will do between friends and brothers-in-law. But come and sit with us. Aldan comes home but once a week now that he's with the Swan Knights, and I have not met many of his friends this year," she invited, gesturing for Peloren to join them. And since refusing would have been difficult, Peloren acquiesced, and not unhappily in fact, taking the stool opposite her. As Aldan squeezed in beside her on the bench, she eyed Peloren closely, and said, "Unless I misremember, it's you I have to thank Aldan hasn't broken anything falling off a horse, I think."  
  
"I've told her how you've been helping me with the riding," Aldan supplied.   
  
"Ah. Well, mi— _Naleth_ , I fear I have not prevented every fall, but I have got him staying on the horse more times than not, at least," Peloren allowed, and Naleth laughed again.  
  
"Which is more than I would ever have wagered. And I am grateful. Years I've spent trying to convince him the only sensible thing to do with a spear is run from it, and he's too thick-headed to heed me—" Aldan made a slightly indignant noise of protest at this, though Peloren detected no real ire "—but thick skull or no, a horse could no doubt crack it. I'd like him to be whole when the baby comes, and perhaps with your help, he will be," Naleth said, and pressed a hand over her swollen belly.   
  
"Congratulations to you both," Peloren replied quietly, and watched them smile at each other.   
  
"My thanks. Are you married, lad? Or do you have a lass you fancy?" Naleth asked, curiously.  
  
"No, there is no one. I am not even betrothed yet. At least, not that I know of," Peloren replied. Naleth chuckled, and the esquire forced a smile. No doubt she thought that no more than a bit of jesting, but his father had been making noises about betrothing him for the past two years. Indeed, it was only the fact that Peloren was the Lord of Hathwyn's second son that had left him free so long.  
  
Alas for Palavir, his efforts to find a wife for his younger son had been upset somewhat by Peloren's expulsion from the Swan Knights. The more cautious lords had been polite, but as of last Yule, daughters had been sick, or too young, or away visiting family, or perhaps the dowry had not been quite in hand—there had always been some reasonable thing to prevent consideration of Palavir's offer.   
  
And then there had been the  _other_  replies from lords less cautious.  
  
"I do not care how much it may please some to contract with us over your misadventure with that Southron, I'll not risk the Prince's wrath in accepting such allies," Palavir had declared. And he had scowled, and said, "I hope you appreciate the trouble you have caused!"  
  
"Yes, Father. I am sorry, sir," Peloren had replied dutifully, and bowed his head to hide his relief.  
  
All of which had been yet another reason to avoid Yuletide in Hathwyn this year, personal disgrace aside. Since against all odds, he had his freedom still, he might as well enjoy it as best he could. For it would not last forever, he knew. One day, he would come home to find a girl waiting for him, having been chosen by his parents from the lasses they considered suitably well-bred and dowered. In all likelihood, he would be told only then that he had been betrothed the past six months and would be expected to marry immediately. For despite his deep disappointment in Peloren of late, Palavir was a sensible soul and took the duties of lord and father seriously: it was only good sense to see one's son wedded and bedded before the first real campaign, after all.   
  
Nevertheless, it was not a day Peloren was particularly looking forward to, but watching Aldan and Naleth, seeing their obvious happiness in each other, it occurred to him that perhaps marriage need not be so burdensome.   
  
Just then, one of the serving lasses appeared with lunch, she and Naleth chatting amiably, bonding over pregnancy. Naleth touched her arm and gestured to Peloren after a few moments, saying, "Here's another hungry one for you, dear. Could you bring something for him?"  
  
"Of course. Anything in particular, good sir?"   
  
"Whatever is quickest ready," Peloren said, and she nodded.  
  
"I'll be but a little," she replied, and disappeared again.   
  
"Please go ahead," Peloren said to his tablemates when she had gone, for the two of them had not moved to touch their food.   
  
"I'll wait a bit," Aldan replied, though he said to Naleth: "You should eat, though, for while it wouldn't be so much trouble, after all the Armsmaster has put me through, to carry you if you fainted, I own I'd hoped to avoid any such heavy lifting for a few more days!"  
  
Naleth wrinkled her nose at him, and swatted his arm, but she did attend to her lunch gratefully. However, she apparently felt obliged to play hostess of their table for the lapse in manners. "And what brought you down to the city this morning, Peloren?" she asked after a moment.  
  
"I was looking for a Yule gift for Elethil," he replied, and told of his efforts thus far. About the middle of his tale, the serving girl returned, bearing with her one of the meat pies and some ale, which proved distracting enough that they all fell silent for a time.   
  
Three healthy appetites made short work of the meal, and as they finished, Naleth sighed. "Well, I suppose you need to find that gift, and we had a few last things to look at as well. More blankets, for one! Hand up, love?" Aldan obligingly helped her to her feet, sliding an arm about her waist. Peloren, meanwhile, quickly added up the prices and withdrew the appropriate amount from his purse, laying it on the table. "Here, now, there's no need for that!" Naleth protested.  
  
"Indeed, I think I ought to by buying you lunch for all the help you've been, lad," Aldan added.   
  
Peloren, who had been about to say that it was really no trouble, that he could afford it, fortunately caught the undertone just in time to keep it behind his teeth and avoid unintentionally ending the one friendship he had managed to cultivate this past term. Glancing from one to the other, he quickly amended his excuse, shrugging slightly as he said, "I had hoped it might serve as a Yule gift, since I fear I don't know what to get either of you. Other than something for the baby, that is, but alas! I have enough trouble shopping for those who can say what they want, as you can see!"  
  
Then he waited a bit breathlessly, hoping that would serve not to offend pride. And it seemed he had guessed rightly, for Naleth relented after a moment, though she was quick to say: "You should come and have supper with us tomorrow. 'Dan's bringing a few others home—mostly men from his old company and their wives, though I think there may be a few others...?" She trailed off, glancing questioningly at her husband.  
  
"Teilin and Ambor," Aldan said, naming two esquires. They were also, like Aldan, men who had come up from the infantry companies, though they were further along in their training than he was. Peloren hesitated, quickly running through his memories, trying to decide if he had ever got much in the way of hostile feeling from them especially. For much as he desired to avoid such conflicts for his own sake, he certainly did not want to bring them into Aldan's home... "No worries, lad, they're sensible about things," his friend said then, and gave Peloren a significant look.   
  
"I see. Well, I should like to then."  
  
"Good! Then we shall see you then at latest," Naleth said. "'Dan will fetch you home with the others."  
  
"And if you think he'd care to, tell your friend, Elethil, to come as well," Aldan added, which was a bit of a surprise. Peloren had introduced the two of them to each other, and they had talked a few times together, or met while on stable duty or the like, but he had not got the impression that the two of them had pursued things beyond pleasantries. But Aldan met his eyes, then, and Peloren understood:  _You need time away, both of you._  Which was too true, and so:  
  
"I shall ask him. Thank you both," Peloren replied. "Good day!"   
  
"Merry Yule, lad!"   
  
They parted then, Aldan and Naleth making for the weavers' stalls, while Peloren recommenced his quest to find a proper Yule gift for Elethil with renewed vigor, conscious of the winnowing of his hours. At length, he happened upon a latecomer to the fair: a stall was going up that had a harp painted upon it.  _A maker of instruments?_  Peloren thought, and quickened his pace to investigate.  
  
"Good day, sir," the proprietor said, while his two apprentices struggled with the cases. "Come looking for a little music?"  
  
"Mayhap," Peloren replied. For Elethil did play, though only rarely, and he was hardly a great musician. But he did well enough for the occasional plays the esquires put on behind the backs of their betters... "I've a friend who might appreciate it, though he is a very novice at it, in truth."  
  
"Is that so? Well, what's his fancy? Drums? Harps?"  
  
"Do you have any reed pipes?"  
  
"Is the sky blue?" the man countered, scoffing as he led Peloren over to look at several examples thereof. "I'm from the Ethir, young sir, the best place in all Gondor to find reeds for whatever you can imagine!"  
  
There were several types, ranging from large, deep pipes, to the short-length fisherman's pipes which consisted of several narrow reads bound together side by side to play a scale or more. Despite their simplicity, they appeared to have been well made, and even nicely painted in a few instances. Peloren selected one, a small pipe made of a narrow reed, perhaps the length of his forearm.   
  
"Let me hear you play it," he told the merchant, who obligingly fluted a quick scale and a brief melody. Peloren might not play, but to his ear, it sounded sweet enough. "That will do. How much?"  
  
Some half hour later, he was making his way back to the keep, his gift in its case stuffed in the back of his belt and safely out of sight. He would lock it in his trunk while he was on duty and deliver it later that evening to Elethil, when he intended to find out what it was Elethil had chosen for him. He had just turned a corner and was about to pass the bathroom when the door opened and another emerged, right into his path.   
  
"Oof!" Peloren staggered a bit, and so did the other, who was solidly built for all he was shorter than the esquire. Then:   
  
"My apologies—"  
  
"Please excuse—"   
  
And then they both stopped mid-sentence, staring at each other, and Peloren felt as if his heart had landed in his stomach. Andrahar of Umbar rocked back on his heels slightly, and if he wasn't precisely glaring at him, Peloren was not such a fool as to mistake no expression for calm. Bright black eyes managed to darken even further as Andrahar stared up at him, while Peloren strove to find something to say. But his mind was blank as a scribe's copy slate, and for the life of him it seemed he could not fill it with words.   
  
At long last, Andrahar broke the silence: "Excuse me," he said curtly, and then brushed by him, clearly as little desirous of further speech as Peloren was.   
  
 _But I've surely got to say **something**!_  Apparently so, for without his willing it, he had turned, and he heard himself call out: "Andrahar." The Southron paused and glanced back at him.  _I'm sorry,_  Peloren thought. What came out was: "Merry Yule." Andrahar's eyes narrowed ominously. But after a moment:  
  
"And to you," he replied, then resumed his course, leaving Peloren to lean back against the wall, eyes closing as he bit his lip.  _Valar curse it all and damn the luck!_  he swore, and it was as if all the frustration and fear of the term had conspired to knot itself up into a single weight of misery in his gut. He slapped the wall behind him, just to feel it, then pushed his hands through his hair.  _Damn it!_  He wasn't sure which he was cursing more: fate or himself or Andrahar. He wasn’t even certain whether it mattered.  
  
But there was no time to ponder such questions: he had a shift in the hall he had to take, and so after a few moments, he shook himself and hurried towards his quarters, there to change quickly into his livery. The pipe he did lock in his chest, and for safe measure, he shoved that well under his bed in an attack of fearfulness. Then it was out to the hall at a trot, for not only was he due on duty, but he needed to find Elethil, to warn him before he had his own unexpected encounter.  
  
"Ah, Peloren!" He heard his name called as he entered the hall, and saw Armsmaster Ornendil standing there by the hearth, Elethil at his side, away from the bustle. Ominously, Elethil was looking rather as pale as Peloren thought he himself must... "I'd like a word with you."  
  
"Armsmaster," Peloren murmured as he approached. Elethil's jaw was clenched, his eyes worried: clearly he was bursting to speak, but he deferred to Ornendil, who said:   
  
"I've spoken to Elethil already, but I wanted to give you each a warning: Andrahar—"  
  
"Is back, sir. We, ah, we've met already," Peloren replied, unsettled enough to actually interrupt the Armsmaster. Ornendil blinked, and gave him a close stare, ere he said:  
  
"I see. Well, then that is half the news already."  _Half?_  Peloren thought, aware of Elethil miserably looking on. "The masters and Captain Valandil have discussed the matter, and we are making Andrahar an instructor in swordsmanship and Haradric next term. That means you will be spending some time under his tutelage. Now, we've already spoken with him about this, but the two of you deserve a little advance notice."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Peloren murmured, by sheer rote habit.  
  
"I know this is not news either of you welcome, but do your best—and lads, it would help us all if the three of you would try to come to some terms with each other, not simply tolerate each other. All right?"  
  
"Yes, sir," they both said. Ornendil could hardly overlook their lack of enthusiasm, but he simply sighed, and smiled slightly.  
  
"All this term we've spent reminding you that war is hardship, to be faced with courage. If you can face that, then this should not be beyond you. Go on, now. I'll see you in the hall come supper." With that, the Armsmaster left them, and Peloren, after a moment, laid a hand on Elethil's shoulder.   
  
"Are you all right?" he asked.  
  
"Are you?" Elethil retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly.  
  
"I'll manage.  _We'll_  manage. We've got to, or we’re through, Elya," Peloren said, and shook his head determinedly. "And I'm not willing to give it up yet." With that, he glanced around, seeking the castellan who was overseeing the esquires that were climbing up to the rafters to hang garlands. He had just spotted him, when Elethil spoke again:  
  
"Is he still angry?" he asked, in an urgent undertone.   
  
Peloren drew a deep breath, and gave Elethil an unhappy look ere he replied, with grim certainty:  
  
"Oh yes."


	4. Plague of Fears

The Yule gathering was every bit as awful as Peloren had imagined it would be from the moment he had met Andrahar in the hall. The Southron's presence among the knights seated across the Great Hall at least put him far enough away that there was little chance two esquires would encounter him. But that did not spare Peloren or Elethil the whispers, for gossip ran through the ranks like lice or fire, and the few esquires who had  _not_  heard tell of his return could hardly be ignorant of it when—in the other surprise of the evening—Imrahil made his appearance at last, for he insisted upon bringing Andrahar up to dine with him and the royal family.  
  
Watching as Imrahil embraced Andrahar and half-dragged his reluctant and somewhat scandalized friend along with him to the high table, Celdir snorted. "From homeless waif to knighted oath-brother of the Heir to Dol Amroth," he muttered, just loud enough for the table to hear, and shook his head in disgust.   
  
Faldion grunted at that, and rolled his eyes a little. But then: "'Tis a long way indeed. I doubt even the  _Pelóri_  could keep him from his ends."   
  
Which bit of verbal cleverness was hardly lost on anyone, even without the disdainful look tossed in Peloren's direction, and Peloren felt his fists clench beneath the table as he struggled to bite back on an impolite retort.  
  
"Why, Faldi, I had no idea your tongue had such a singular wit! Nevertheless, perhaps we might speak of something more pleasant," Celdir said then in a mild tone, though Faldion stiffened at the use of the hated short-form of his name and the clearly back-handed praise, and Peloren inwardly groaned. Since no one seemed to believe Celdir was not a part of his and Elethil's 'faction,' no doubt the jab would come back around to him or to Elethil eventually.   
  
 _Just what we need!_  he thought, spearing a bit of pheasant on his knife, and determinedly ignoring the tension that emanated from further down the table. Beside him, Elethil simply reached for his wine glass and downed the contents in a rather inelegant gulp. But neither of them spoke, grimly resolved to endure the evening without adding anything to the warring in the esquire ranks.  
  
Resolve, however, did not prevent them from hearing things as the evening progressed. Particularly once the new esquires had been sworn in and the dancing began, so also did the serious gossip-mongering. News was beginning to leak out of Andrahar's assignment of the past several months, and there came a point when Peloren, already fed up with the looks from his fellow esquires, simply did not wish to hear another word of it. Nor had he any desire to immerse himself in everyone else's holiday cheer or to endure the apparent sympathy of Celdir and his lot, which, whether intentionally or otherwise, merely reminded him at every turn of how little he had to celebrate this year.   
  
And while wine was a cure for many things, he was beginning to get to the point where it might do more harm than good—he certainly did not need anything to loosen his tongue this evening if he wished to avoid an impolitic and probably unknightly remark that might send him to Ornendil in violation of his oath of courtesy.  
  
Therefore, bowing to his dancing partner of the moment, he excused himself and slipped out of the hall. There he paused and considered his options. After only a brief moment of indecision, he pulled his gloves from his belt, drew them on, cast his hood up, then made for outer wall of the keep, and the stables.   
  
It was quiet outside, the night sky clear so the glitter of winter stars shone brightly down beneath a waxing moon. It was also bitterly cold, and Peloren shivered as he hurried across the yard. The stable doors were closed, but he cracked them open and slipped inside, pausing a moment in the darkness that smelt of horses and hay to find the lantern and matches. There were always a pair of lanterns ready for use, though it was absolutely forbidden to leave one lit and unattended, and woe unto the page who so much as took two steps toward the door without dousing the light, or who let a match fall to the floor instead of putting it in the metal pail that was kept expressly for that purpose.   
  
Peloren was far too well-versed in the ways of the Dol Amroth stables to make such errors, so his match went immediately into the pail and he held the lantern carefully as he moved down the rows of slumbering horses. It was warmer in among them, and as he walked, every so often, one would raise its head to look at him, or they would shift and tails would swish idly. One or two nickered softly at him, and he hushed them as he passed, gently patting noses that were thrust over the stall doors to investigate.   
  
At length, he came to Lightfall's door, and his gelding, already alerted by the others, was waiting there. Warm, horsy breath blew in his face as Lightfall snorted, and Peloren quickly hung the lantern on a hook that hung down from the ceiling. Then he reached, caught Lightfall's face, and pressed his own up against it, eyes shut as he whispered soothing nothings and reached to stroke and scratch the gelding's neck. Lightfall nickered, lifting his head slightly to hook it over Peloren's shoulder, possessively drawing his rider in closer. Long lashes tickled against Peloren's cheek, and Lightfall obligingly mouthed his back, which undoubtedly would leave his livery in need of a wash, but he hardly cared.   
  
"Hsst, lad, you like that, eh? Just like that?" Peloren murmured, scratching a little harder, and Lightfall sighed contentedly.   
  
He was not sure how long he had stood there, but it surely was not more than a half hour or so before he heard the creak of the doors, and then the hesitant tread of someone groping his way forward in the near-darkness. "Pel?" the intruder murmured uncertainly. Peloren leaned heavily against his horse a moment before responding.  
  
"Elya," he replied. "Over here."  
  
More scuffling in the darkness as Elethil turned down a corner, following his voice or else having caught sight of the light as he moved. In either case, it was not long before his friend arrived, leaning against the door-post to peer at him. And he murmured greetings to Lightfall, stroking the animal's nose as the horse sniffed. "I thought you would go to your room or your horse," Elethil said.   
  
"I just got tired of everyone; horses are better company," Peloren said, reaching out to slap Lightfall's neck affectionately, then he curled his fingers and continued scratching.   
  
"Aye, well, horses don't keep throwing Imri's pet at us. Can't turn around in the hall without it being 'Andrahar this' or 'Andrahar that'—not that they'd have a whit of interest were it not for us," Elethil muttered, darkly.   
  
Peloren only grunted, shifting a little uncomfortably, though he did not doubt Elethil was right: so far as the esquires were concerned, Andrahar's return to Dol Amroth was one more thing to torment them with or else a matter to complain of in the cordial, vicious way of verbal warfare so beloved of Celdir, Torlas, and Iordel. As for the rest of the guests, undoubtedly the novelty of a Southron who had saved the Heir, got a beating for his trouble, and yet remained loyal was an irresistible topic of gossip. Fate loved irony, and Peloren and Elethil spent a glum moment contemplating it.  
  
But after a little while, Elethil straightened up, and he raised the arm he had kept tucked under his cloak to produce a box. A quite familiar box. "When you weren't in your room, I thought I might make better company if I came looking for you with this," he explained, changing the subject. "Merry Yule."  
  
"And I don't have yours with me," Peloren sighed, chagrined, but Elethil merely shrugged again.   
  
"Open it."  
  
So he did, carefully lifting the lid. Inside lay something dark and coiled up about itself, with a shine of metal tucked at the center. It was a belt. Not the sort to hang a sword from, but a nicely made one, whose buckle was cunningly wrought in the shape of a horse's head, the neck arching around, so the head turned back upon the leather, as if the animal were looking backwards.   
  
"I saw it awhile ago down at the tanner's," Elethil explained. "When you said Master Théorwyn wanted you for an assistant, I thought it would suit."  
  
"I think it shall," Peloren replied, touched. He ran a thumb over the buckle, ere he looked up at his friend. "Thank you."  
  
"One of us has to do the Fifth company proud at least, even if not anyone else," Elethil said, bitterly. "It looks to be you."  
  
"Elya," Peloren chided gently.   
  
"'Tis but truth. I know I am no wonder at anything—not like you with horses. I wager I am not even the best in my family. Three older brothers, all knighted, and have I ever taken one of them down?" He shook his head, then gestured to the belt once more, changing the subject. "I figure it won't show under a sword-belt, if you're so inclined." Which was to say, there was little risk of any of their classmates noticing and taking it for cheek or the like, nor of making a haughty fuss over it and inspiring ill-feeling among the others.  
  
"Well, it's the pages and lads like Aldan I'll be getting, anyway," Peloren replied. "Not that I'm complaining. By the way, I met Aldan and his wife today."  
  
"Oh? What's she like?" Elethil asked.  
  
"Forthright. Seems a very stout sort of person. They are quite the pair," Peloren answered, smiling a little. "And they say you should come with me and join them and a few of their friends for supper tomorrow."  
  
"Truly?" Elethil asked, surprised.  
  
"Truly. Come on, it would be a night away from the hall," Peloren wheedled.   
  
"If it gets me away from Andrahar and his newfound admirers, that's enough for me. I'll come," Elethil replied, reaching into his scrip at that moment to retrieve a flask. Peloren frowned.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Yuletide gift to myself. I got it yesterday when I went to the tanner's," Elethil answered, and took a swig before proffering it to Peloren. "I don't mind sharing, if you want some."  
  
Peloren, who had already been feeling a bit tipsy when he had retired to the stables, grunted, but he did accept, raising it to his lips. The flask reeked, and Peloren jerked his head back slightly. "Phew!" Elethil only raised a brow—'Will you drink or no?' that look said, and so Peloren drew a breath and then took a quick swallow. It tasted worse than it smelled, even, and Peloren coughed, grimacing as he choked it down.   
  
"Where did you  _find_  this?" he demanded, handing it back to Elethil, who promptly took another drink.   
  
"The  _Harp and Sails_  tavern."  
  
"I cannot believe anyone would admit to making it, let alone selling it," Peloren exclaimed. Nevertheless, when Elethil extended the flask back to him, he took it and another good-sized swallow. And then another. "Valar, that is utterly vile!"  
  
"Which is why I bought it. I think it was an experiment—you know how folk like that Khandian melon liquor? That is what it is, supposedly, though I don't believe it." Elethil paused to take another sip, ere he concluded: "Awful stuff, but it is strong—puts you out pretty quick if you're tired."  
  
His friend narrowed his eyes. "Have you bought this before?" he asked, in consternation.  
  
"Found out about it awhile ago," Elethil confessed, ducking his head. "I, um, got tired of being tired, and waking up at night, so..."  
  
"You drink this every night before you go to bed?" Peloren demanded, appalled.  
  
"It doesn't take much, and I don't dream, and if anyone does come in, I don't know it."  
  
"Why not ask the healers for something?" he asked. The look Elethil gave him was answer enough, and Peloren sighed. Of course. Healers were off-limits for their sort of problem, for to get their assistance, one would have to explain, and explaining in this case was entirely too close to complaining and an admission one couldn't handle matters. And they had to handle things if they wished to survive, so no healers. "You don't get sick in the morning? Or have a headache?" Peloren asked, after a moment.  
  
"Not enough of it in me for that. It's a little like taking wine—a lot of people do it, you know," his friend said, a touch defensively still. Peloren shuddered as Elethil sipped again.  
  
"Then why not follow custom and drink wine? You certainly were drinking plenty of  _that_  earlier. This is terrible!"  
  
"Ah, but that is its virtue," Elethil said, grinning a little now. "It tastes bad enough that I'm not tempted to drink more than a little of it."  
  
For some reason, that actually made sense, quite possibly because Elethil was not the only one who had had a few glasses of Dorwinion that evening, and so Peloren simply nodded, watching as Elethil tipped his head back once more, then handed the flask over. "Just a little... I suppose that's all right." Elethil shrugged. "There's not even much more in here," Peloren said, giving the flask a swirl, feeling the contents slosh about.  
  
"See? It's only a little."  
  
"Right." Peloren took another swig, gagging a bit as some of it touched his tongue despite his efforts to toss it straight back. It burned all the way down, and he coughed, swaying a bit. Then: "Valar, we are in trouble!"  
  
"Hear, hear," Elethil muttered.  
  
"I mean real trouble. Not just this tonight."  
  
"Oh aye."  
  
A pause, as the flask was passed between them once and again. Then:   
  
"D'you think he'll kill us?" Peloren asked, as he draped an arm over Lightfall's neck and leaned against his horse.  
  
Elethil snorted. "I wish!" he replied, grimly, and produced a second flask from his scrip. "To Andra... I don't know why."  
  
"Your health," Peloren sighed, and downed the rest of the flask in a long, awful swallow.  
  
"Health," Elethil muttered, unstoppering the new one. He shook his head. "Right."  
  
  
It was some time and two empty flasks later that they staggered out of the stables, Peloren having managed somehow to douse the light before leaving. Plunged into darkness, they had tripped and stumbled their way forward, acquiring a few scrapes and knocked knees and shins along the way. By the time they had woven their unsteady way back to the Fledglings' Wing, Peloren had thrown up once, and Elethil looked to be on the verge of it, though perhaps from long practice, he valiantly held on and shakily held his friend up when Peloren doubled over a frozen flowerbed and heaved up the remains of his supper.  
  
"Least 'twasn't t'halls," Peloren muttered as they reached his room, after exaggeratedly counting every door to make certain it was number five. It was dark within—Elethil had apparently blown out the candle he had used earlier, or else it had gone out by itself. Neither of them bothered to try to light a new one, recognizing on some level that efforts to do so were more likely to end in them burning themselves than aught else. Fortunately, Peloren had left his room clean, and there was nothing for them to trip over as Elethil and he swayed over to and then stumbled against the bed. There Elethil, who had had one of Peloren's arms over his shoulder and been supporting much of his weight, more or less dropped him before his own knees buckled.   
  
Peloren groaned, holding his breath while he waited for his stomach to settle. Somewhere nearby, Elethil muttered something unintelligible, and metal scraped on flagstone as the chamber pot was groped for. But nothing happened, and after a moment, the sheets shifted beneath Peloren as Elethil grasped them and tried to pull himself up.   
  
Eventually, Peloren reached out and caught his friend's arm, tugging 'til he felt the mattress dip as Elethil literally crawled in beside him. Peloren then made a supreme effort and managed to scoot himself a little further toward the wall to make room for him. The world felt rather more than simply fuzzy, and Peloren willed it away. And despite what Elethil had said earlier, likely it was precisely that that was the virtue of the awful liquor, for with his wish, everything seemed to melt away...  
  
 _Blackness._  
  
  
Dawn came and went unheeded, and even much of the morning. At some point, Peloren stirred, brought out of his stupor by the sound of Elethil succumbing at last to the ills of too much drink. He vaguely hoped his friend had found the chamber pot after all, but then he sank back down into unconsciousness.   
  
An uncertain while later, he was wakened again as he became aware, in the midst of a more general achiness, of an uncomfortable pressure just below his stomach. After a few moments spent fuzzily contemplating that feeling, Peloren groaned softly and forced himself to turn over onto his other side, then pushed himself up onto an elbow. It took a bit of effort, for not only did he ache all over, but his head felt like it had rocks in it. Or perhaps not. Rocks didn't feel pain, after all. But maybe it was more that rocks—in general, and these in particular—pained  _him_...?  
  
"Too early for this," he mumbled, wincing at the dim light that leaked through the shutters, which were not quite fully closed.  _Valar, what happened last night?_  Memory was blurry, yet he did recall the stables, and the liquor... But his bladder's promptings were more urgent than such questions, ultimately, and so he climbed over Elethil, who protested only a little, then slid off the side of his bed to land in a heap on the flagstones.   
  
Lying there, breathing hard, and wishing the cool of the stones would do something to ease the murderous headache, Peloren waited out the bout of sickness 'til he was reasonably certain he would not vomit if he moved. Then slowly, he opened bleary eyes and found the chamber pot half under the bed. It had most definitely been used, but Peloren hooked his fingers over the rim anyway, pulled it nearer, and then began the painful process of sitting up. With the help of the bed, he managed to get to his knees, then decided he wouldn't be going further than that for a time, and so began fumbling the buttons on his trousers. His aim probably wasn't that good anyway, even if he had felt able to stand up...  
  
Once he had finished, doing up the buttons again presented a challenge, but Peloren managed to get enough of them into some (even if not the right) buttonholes for modesty's sake. Then he glanced at the bed. Elethil was still asleep, sprawled out bonelessly on his back, one leg dangling off the side. He looked very pale and not at all well, and after a few moments, Peloren slumped at the bedside.  _I can't!_  Folding his arms atop Elethil's chest, he laid his head upon them and squeezed his eyes shut...  
  
He was not sure how long they stayed like that, but the knock on the door startled him, and he jerked upright, hissing in pain at the movement. Elethil moaned. "Peloren?" came the slightly muffled query. "Are you in there?"  
  
Peloren debated rising to answer the door, but only briefly ere he called back, "Aye. Who's there?"  
  
"Aldan," came the reply, and the esquire frowned in puzzlement.  
  
"Aldan? What're you doing here?" he asked.  
  
There was a slight pause, then: "May I come in?"  
  
Peloren sighed. "Yes."   
  
The door opened to reveal his fellow esquire standing there, neatly brushed and looking entirely too lively for Peloren's tastes. Aldan blinked, hesitating on the threshold as he took in the tableau before him, but then he snorted and entered, closing the door behind him.   
  
"So, you've come down with the Yuletide plague, I see," he said amiably, and Peloren scowled at him.  
  
"It's not funny," he muttered.  
  
"Maybe not for you. Or Elethil. Valar, Elethil, are you all right?" Aldan bent worriedly over the other, laying a hand to the side of his throat, feeling for a pulse.  
  
"Jus' kill me or go 'way," came the slurred reply, and Elethil batted weakly at him. Aldan's face cleared a little, and he pulled a bright smile.  
  
"No such luck, my lad. It's well past noon. There's not much of the day left, and if you do want to avoid dinner in the hall this evening, it's high time to effect a cure of the two of you so you can leave with me. So, up with you both. Or shall I bring Kendrion in?"  
  
Which threat was cruel and wholly uncalled for, in Peloren's estimation, but it did prompt him to make an effort to rise. With Aldan's hands under his arms, he actually managed it. "I'll get Pel moving first, then come back for you, Elethil. You'd best be sitting up by then or I'm fetching a healer," Aldan warned, as he began guiding Peloren toward the door.   
  
The bathroom was not far, fortunately, and the servants knew to keep a large quantity of hot water on hand after holidays, so it was but a short while later that Peloren found himself contemplating the astonishing fact that the liquor tasted worse on his tongue in the morning than it had going down, and trying not to sleep in his bath. Aldan had left to go fetch Elethil, so temptation was high to simply let the warmth of the water lull him back to sleep. But he was afraid if he did, Aldan might fetch Kendrion anyway, and so he rubbed soap into his hair, fingers gently massaging the tender spots of his skull, where the aforementioned rocks within it seemed to be pressing hardest.   
  
"What under the stars did the two of you drink last night?" Aldan demanded as he returned a short while later with Elethil hanging off his shoulder. He sat the esquire down next to the by now steaming tub that awaited him and began undoing belt buckles and buttons and pulling boots.   
  
"Dunno. Something... melon? Ask Elethil," Peloren said, leaning forward gingerly so he could rinse the soap out of his hair.  
  
"Melon? You mean that rotgut from  _Harp and Sails_  they pass off as Khandian liquor?"  
  
Peloren started to nod, thought the better of it. "That's it."  
  
"How much?"  
  
"Two flasks."  
  
Aldan stared at him, and then at Elethil, and he shook his head. "Was a time I'd have congratulated you for a new record, but a man's got to be desperate to drink more than two fingers' worth of it," he grunted, as he began working on buttons and ties. "We used to take the new lads there, when I was in the Third Company, and force a glass on them. Sort of a rite of passage. No one ever asked for a second round unless his wife was cuckolding him. Not that you two have that excuse." Aldan paused in his efforts to undress Elethil, who was not contributing much to the process, simply leaning his head on Aldan's shoulder exhaustedly.   
  
"Not yet," Peloren replied, softly. Aldan shook his head again, and then reached and peeled Elethil out of tunic and shirt, both at once. Then, apparently deciding against getting Elethil on his feet, he simply pushed him to lie down on the bench and wrestled his trousers off.  
  
"Come on, lad, in with you," Aldan cajoled, as he manhandled a rather less than coordinated Elethil into the tub. Then: "Peloren, the servants are in the chamber beyond—see that he doesn't drown himself. I'll return in a little while."  
  
Shaking his head one last time at them both, Aldan departed, destination unknown, leaving the two to their own devices. Peloren, who was perhaps feeling somewhat revived by the steam, glanced over at Elethil, who still looked pasty white and sick. "You going to be all right, Elya?"  
  
"'F I don' move, maybe."  
  
"Thought you said you drank this stuff regularly."  
  
"Not that much."  
  
"Don't drink it again, will you?"  
  
Elethil sighed, putting his head in his hands. When he spoke, it was slowly, as if he were concentrating on every word. "Pel, my tongue feels like clay and my head feels like a war-horse kicked it. Can we not talk right now?" he pleaded.   
  
"Well, I'm not drinking it again. Valar, my head hurts!" Peloren shut his eyes and clenched his teeth and every muscle against pain that seemed to pulse from just behind his eyes.  _I will not be sick, I will not be sick... there's worse than this in life. Like dying. And what doesn't kill me... leaves me alive._  That wasn't how the sergeants' favorite saying went, but at the moment the proper conclusion escaped him. But the spirit of it remained with him, despite his impairment, and drawing a deep breath, he held out a hand blindly, and said through gritted teeth: "Hand me the soap."  
  
When Aldan did return, he was pleased to find his charges still conscious, and even having made some progress despite their misery. Or rather, Peloren had made some progress; Elethil at least was still awake, much to his regret, and Peloren had managed to scrub his friend's back. That apparently was good enough for Aldan, for he helped Peloren out of the tub then and into the clean uniform kept in his cubby hole, then mercifully let him sit down on one of the benches while he went and saw to Elethil. Eventually, Elethil was deposited next to him, while Aldan struggled to get his boots back on.   
  
As before, Elethil simply turned and laid his head on whichever shoulder was nearest, which this time was Peloren's. Peloren slipped an arm about his suffering friend's back, and murmured: "Please don't throw up on me, Elya."  
  
"Try not to," came the muffled reply.  
  
Once the task of getting dressed was done, Aldan hauled Elethil up again, then said to Peloren: "You'll have to manage on your own. Come on, I've talked with Cook, she'll have something for you."  
  
Some time and much coaxing and cajoling later, they sat in a corner of the hall, while Aldan stood over them and forced them to drink an unbelievable amount of water and starflower tea, walking each of them to the garderrobe in turn as needed, 'til Peloren at last owned he could probably handle toast. Probably. Cook, when told of this, had a servant bring a pot out with it anyway, just in case.   
  
"Thanks," Peloren said quietly to Aldan, when the manservant had gone, and nibbled on the toast.  
  
"I own I was a little worried when I heard that no one had seen you since last night," the older man said. Peloren grunted.  
  
"I'm only grateful there's no duty for anyone the day after Yule," he sighed. "We'd be running 'til the end of the term otherwise."  
  
"No doubt." Aldan paused then, and considered his own teacup a moment, before he spoke again in a low voice. "Look, lads, if you recall, I was at home with Naleth and our families yestereve, so I've not heard all the news. Did something happen up here last night?" he asked bluntly. "Or were you both just stupid?"  
  
There was a moment's hesitation, ere both Elethil and Peloren said at once: "Stupid."   
  
It must not have been a very convincing response, for Aldan snorted. "Somehow I doubt that," he said.   
  
But neither Peloren nor Elethil were in the mood to satisfy curiosity; Elethil, indeed, seemed to have exhausted himself in that one declaration, and so Peloren said simply, "'Tis the Yuletide plague, like you said. Must've caught it from Faldion, maybe. Or Celdir."  
  
Elethil choked at that, having been caught in the middle of finishing his tea. Aldan obligingly slapped him on the back, and both he and Peloren waited anxiously, 'til it was plain there would be no need of the pot. "Swallowed wrong. Sorry," Elethil managed, clearing his throat. Then: "When are we leaving tonight?"  
  
"I had thought to come get you and Pel and the others around four," Aldan answered.  
  
"Time 's'it now?"  
  
"Two o'clock by the bells."   
  
Elethil made a soft, pained noise, squeezing his eyes shut. After a moment, he murmured, "I've got to sleep this off."  
  
"Think I will, too," Peloren said, wearily. "Sorry, Aldan."  
  
"I'll walk you back then," Aldan sighed. And he did, mostly helping Elethil, though occasionally, he would reach and steady Peloren a bit, who managed otherwise by using the wall for balance. Although Peloren's room was closer, he insisted on walking a few doors down to see Elethil to bed first, and waited, leaning on the wall outside, while Aldan helped his friend get the tunic and boots off, and then forced him to lie on his side, just to be safe. He also took care to position the chamber pot just below Elethil's head, in case it should be needed.  
  
"Valar, how much did he drink?" Aldan asked him, once he had emerged and closed the door.   
  
"The liquor, you mean?"  
  
"I mean everything."  
  
"I don't remember. More than I, I think," Peloren replied.  
  
"How much did you have?"  
  
"I... don't remember, other than the liquor. But I'm sure that was just the two flasks. And he had more," Peloren replied, and the older man shook his head once more in disbelief.   
  
"You were lucky you didn't kill yourselves," he muttered. "That stuff would fell a troll, I swear!"  
  
"S'pose we were," Peloren murmured. It was perhaps a little too close to the truth, for when they reached his door, Aldan leaned an arm on the doorjamb and laid a hand on Peloren's shoulder, glancing up and down the hall to make certain there were none to overhear. Peloren sighed. "Please, Aldan, I only want to sleep," he pleaded, wearily.   
  
"Just listen a moment and I'll let you go to bed," his friend replied. "You may be my better with horses and a few other things, blood not least, but I haven't been twenty for six years now. I was once, though, and so I know there's stupid drunk, and then there's you and Elethil. I heard that what's-his-name—Andrar?"  
  
"Andrahar," Peloren supplied woodenly.  
  
"Andrahar—all my life in the South Docks, I still can't manage the names! Sindarin's work enough for me, I fear," he sighed. "Anyway, I've heard he is back—it's all over the keep. And it sounds like there's some that're happier about that than others. Not that they're fond of this Andrahar fellow, but there're plenty of lads as have it in for you, whatever the Armsmaster and others keep telling them about brotherhood. There're plenty of them that want you under their boots, and it's hard enough to keep their heels off your neck even if you keep your nose out of a drinking glass. Once you're under the table, it's over, because then you get a taste for the floor and tend to stay there." Aldan paused, took in Peloren's bleary-eyed look, and sighed. "What I'm saying, Pel, is that you want to be able to push back when there's trouble. If you're drunk like you are now, you won't be able to."  
  
Aldan straightened up then, and gave him a bracing clap on either shoulder, then drew him forward to stand right before the door. "I'll have a look in on you both later. If you feel up to it, you can join us tonight. If not, do the sensible thing and get some sleep."  
  
With that, he left, and Peloren, after a moment, reached for the door knob. His room looked much more a mess than it had earlier, though Peloren blessed Aldan for having at some point got the chamber pot emptied out and the floor cleaned so it did not smell quite as bad as it might have otherwise. But his sheets were rumpled, and they reeked of sweat and liquor and horse. With a sigh, Peloren opened the window to let some air in, and then, heedless of the stench, collapsed back onto his bed and slept.  
  
  
  
Meanwhile, later that evening, two other young men faced each other across a chess board, one of them idly running a finger about the rim of a half-empty goblet of wine as he contemplated the pieces. The other contemplated his friend as he straddled the chair he had turned about, and he rested his chin upon arms that were folded atop the back of his seat.  
  
"You've grown vicious at this since I've been away," Imrahil said at length, and flashed Andrahar a grin. "Are you certain you haven't been playing with my soon-to-be brother-in-law?"  
  
Andrahar snorted. "He's seen my game. I was playing with your sister once and he walked in on it. Took one look at the board, got that slightly disdainful curl to his lip, then kissed your sister's hand, moved a captain, and set me up for checkmate in five. So he claimed then," Andrahar added. "He probably was right, but we never finished the game nor did he ever ask me for another. Likely he thought it not worth his time."  
  
"You never told me about this," Imrahil exclaimed, and tsked at him. Andrahar raised a brow, and then, in part out of irritation with the ringing sound Imrahil's attention to the goblet was creating, reached and laid his hand flat over the Heir's.  
  
"I never told you about it because we'd hardly said our hellos, however... improper... when you fell ill, Imri." Imrahil blinked, a little surprised, perhaps, by the intensity of his tone, but then he cocked his head at Andrahar, and after a moment, a smile spread over his face and his eyes softened so that Andrahar's heart gave a painful little thump.   
  
"You're still worried about that, aren't you?" the Heir said gently. "Even with the Elves' assurance I can shield myself now?"  
  
" _Especially_  with the Elves' assurance," Andrahar growled, and quickly bit off the host of uncomplimentary things he might have said of them. For despite fears of Imrahil relapsing, for the moment at least, it seemed they had done as promised and returned Imrahil hale and himself to those who loved him.   
  
The Heir's appearance last night had been unexpected, though the moment Imrahil had come bounding down to the Swan Knights' table to embrace him, and murmur into his ear, "Merry Yule, Andra!", he had realized the precise, literal truth of Adrahil's answer to him the evening before, and understood there must have been some instruction from Imrahil to keep his coming quiet, the better to make an entrance. It was a gift Andrahar could hardly complain of, though a part of him had been exasperated with such games, frustrated.   
  
The more so, indeed, because before so many watching eyes, he had had to be careful, to watch his words and his hands, to keep his face from showing too much. He could not say what was needed, though in point of fact, he was not sure it was words he had been wanting: there was a need in him to touch and see and know Imrahil was really well, and equally to show his gladness and the great, aching relief to have him safely back. But none of it could he do before others, not even with Imrahil unabashedly clinging like a limpet to him. It was too much, and too... personal, intimate, to be shared like that and since then, the moment seemed to have passed when he might somehow bring it all up.  
  
And so he sighed instead, released Imrahil's hand and pushed a rook forward to challenge the knight that hovered menacingly about his queen.   
  
"Such becoming gratitude toward them," Imrahil teased, then, as he considered his options. "Truly, though, I haven't had any trouble for weeks and weeks. I promise, 'tis not a problem anymore."  
  
"And what may happen when you return to the lists and training the day after tomorrow?" Andrahar demanded. "You know what first week is like. What if you become... distracted?"  
  
"I won't. It's... well, it does not quite work like that, though I do not know how to explain it to you, exactly," Imrahil said, frowning for being so tongue-tied. He waved a hand after a moment, dismissing the matter. "Anyway, I have been practicing: not so hard as the esquires, perhaps, but I have not neglected my lessons." Imrahil moved a pawn.  
  
"Interesting," Andrahar grunted, by way of comment on that move and to gain some ground to think on what he had just been told.   
  
"Indeed," Imrahil replied, lacing his fingers together and leaning his elbows on the table, so he could rest his chin upon his hands. "It should be quite interesting this year, now that you will be teaching lessons in swordsmanship," he continued, shifting their conversation away from the chessboard. "I'm rather looking forward to it."  
  
"I am not," Andrahar replied, rejecting the idea of recalling his knight. Perhaps the queen herself...?  
  
"Why not?" A pause, and when Andrahar did not immediately respond, Imrahil's tone grew quieter, more hesitant. "Andra, is this about Peloren and Elethil?"  
  
With a sigh, the young Swan Knight picked up one of the pawns he had captured and began toying with it absent-mindedly. "I told the Armsmaster and Captain Valandil and the others I would strive to do as they asked—teach them well and come to terms with them."  
  
"And you will," Imrahil interjected confidently.   
  
"I don't know about that," Andrahar replied, and shook his head, thinking of that encounter in the hall. He had just come from a few hours' practice and had been fairly pleased to find that his timing in a certain form was returning to him. He had had, therefore, no reason to feel broody or irritated, but one look at Peloren, and... For just a second, the urge to strike had seized him—perhaps because they had begun by colliding?—and then a loathing had taken hold. Peloren's behavior had calmed the first impulse, but it had but increased his dislike, fearful as his conduct had been. It had not seemed to him very becoming of an esquire, and if Andrahar in fact was of the opinion Peloren ought to be afraid of him, considering his offenses, this was not Harad.   
  
 _And since it is not, and the masters want us to reconcile ourselves to each other, shouldn't he be less concerned for himself?_ It was not as if  _Peloren_  had been the one helpless in the hands of his enemies, after all. And while Andrahar had not seen Elethil yet, his hopes were not high that his reaction would be very different, or that Elethil would be an improvement on Peloren for cringing.   
  
"You will," Imrahil insisted, and it was his turn to reach across the table and lay a hand over his friend's, halting the agitated handling of the pawn. "If they have paid their debt—"  
  
"Have they?" Andrahar interjected. "Peloren at least seems to expect worse. I confess, Imri, I'm not sure whether I should be insulted by that or pleased."  
  
"Why would you be pleased?" Andrahar sighed inwardly.  _As if that question alone were not telling enough!_  There were moments when Imrahil seemed to forget that at the end of the day, his friend had not grown up to Gondor's ways. Often, this pleased Andrahar, who wearied of having his strangeness thrown in his face day in and day out; but there were times when such forgetfulness cut the other way, alas.  _As now!_    
  
"Because if this were Harad, there would be worse and he ought to fear it. And me! Well, assuming things were there as they are here, and we had some reason to meet as enemies rather than as errant slave and lord," Andrahar allowed. But then he frowned. "Of course, if we were enemies in Harad, flinching like that would lessen him. 'Tis a slavish behavior." He let out a hissing sigh, exclaiming in frustration: "Everything is turned about here!"  
  
"Then you  _don't_  really want him to be afraid of you?" Imrahil asked, clearly perplexed.  
  
"I don't know, Imri!" Andrahar replied curtly, letting a touch of irritation color his tone. "All I know is that I am not looking forward to this term."  
  
Imrahil sighed. "I'm sorry, Andra," he murmured, releasing Andrahar to lean his head in his hands tiredly, ere tucking them under his chin once more to stare at the chessboard. "I'm sorry I got everyone into this mess."  
  
"Don't start," Andrahar warned sharply. "We've discussed that already, and besides, your fault was not of the same order."  
  
"Maybe not, but it put everything in motion," Imrahil replied, sadly. "And however foolish I have been, you know I would never have wished for you to be harmed, especially not for my sake."  
  
At this, Andrahar shifted a bit in his seat, uncertain and uncomfortable, caught between annoyance with the Heir's ability to blame himself for everything and his more usual amazed admiration for the easy, artless way Imrahil could say these things and look a man straight in the eye without the least self-consciousness. And of course, hard on the heels of that latter feeling were familiar others, and he firmly thrust those down, regretting, in that moment, his usual habit of straddling his chair, for it made it hard to hide certain reactions...  
  
"Strange reservations you have, considering I am your bodyguard," he retorted gruffly, and as hoped, that bit of dry humor got a smile from his friend. The edge of friction between them seemed to dissipate, as Imrahil chuckled, saying:  
  
"I must apply me to philosophy, it seems, and learn to be more consistent! Truly, though, Andra," Imrahil said earnestly, "although I have paid such debts as the prince my father deemed I owed, still, I cannot help but feel I owe something still for having been such a fool. If I can help you in any way this term with all of this, you have only to ask. I would be glad to do it."  
  
Andrahar grunted, lowering his eyes to the board once more. "Talk in the hall last night puts me somewhere between a cur and a gelded lapdog—everyone marvels that I should come back so loyally to you after Harad and everything else. Half of the court wonders how long it will be ere nature shows itself and I flay Peloren and Elethil alive and hang the skins high, and I would not be surprised if the other half were taking bets on the matter!" Imrahil winced. Andrahar simply shook his head.   
  
"Even your charm can do only so much, and it is not your battle in the end anyway, but mine. I shall have to fight it as best I can," he replied heavily. Then seeking some escape from this conversation, his eye fell upon a captain, and he glanced down the board. Smiling evilly with sudden inspiration, he moved the piece. "Checkmate in  _four_ ," he said, just a little smugly as he rose. And on impulse, feeling rather daring, he caught Imrahil's hand and kissed it. "Good night, Imri. Until tomorrow."  
  
Understanding dawned upon the Heir just as he reached the door, and so it was to Imrahil's appreciative chortles that Andrahar, spirits lifted by the sound, departed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank Lyllyn for coaching me on the finer points of depicting the hangover of someone on the verge of alcohol poisoning, and for suggesting borage tea. Wikipedia provided the alternate name "starflower."


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, Peloren woke suddenly. Not due to any dream that he could recall or any fear—it was rather as if his body had decided he had slept enough, and so simply sent him hurtling from slumber to waking life, like a diver who surfaces suddenly into the air and light. Almost immediately, he was struck by the scent of his bedsheets, and the chill of the room that made him glad he had not bothered to change into his nightclothes. Sitting up, he pushed his hands through his hair, then blew upon them to warm them before he rose, went to the window, and shut it. Standing made him aware that he needed to relieve himself—again; to judge by the chamber pot's contents, apparently he had got up sometime during the night to do so, though he did not remember this.   
  
Once done, he stared at his bed, then plucked at his tunic and sniffed.  _Another day in the laundry,_  he thought, and sighed as he went to his clothespress. Fortunately, he had still one more day ere the start of the term's torments.   
  
Perhaps an hour later, having taken a quick bath, eaten a little, and stripped his sheets from the bed to add to the basket of laundry, he made his way over to the washroom. The lasses there greeted him—they knew him well, along with all the other esquires, for unlike knights, esquires were required, at home, to do their own laundry. It was yet another way of reinforcing the fact that being a knight required one to know how to properly care for all one's equipment, so as not to disgrace one's brother-knights.   
  
There were a few other esquires present, all of them huddled about the large tub on the east side of the room. Peloren's jaw tightened when he realized two of them were Celdir and Torlas, but he recognized Teilin and Aldan as well.   
  
"Oh ho! Look who's alive after all," Teilin exclaimed when he noticed him, and he elbowed Aldan. "Master Two Flask himself. How's your head?"  
  
"It was not two for me by myself," Peloren replied a bit stiffly, particularly when Celdir raised a skeptical brow and Torlas snickered. "And my head is fine, thank you."  
  
"No offense, lad," Teilin said immediately, and smiled. "But I fear you'll go down to fame in the Third Company after last night, you and Elethil both."  
  
"Just what did you say?" Peloren demanded of Aldan.  
  
"Nothing but the truth," Aldan replied serenely, and Teilin supplied:  
  
"He told us that the two of you somehow managed to choke down two of the  _Harp and Sails'_  finest swill. I didn't think it could be done."  
  
"Well, I don't recommend it," Peloren replied, as he dumped his laundry in with the rest.   
  
" _Harp and Sails_ , is it? I've heard of this, I think. Khandian liquor?" Celdir asked, and shuddered. "It sounds foul, but I suppose it's appropriate, given what the South has brought us lately."  
  
At that, Peloren sighed, and squeezed his eyes shut a moment, scarcely aware of the rather uncomfortable silence that had fallen. A hand landed on his shoulder, and then Celdir was asking, "Are you all right? You look like you're still half under the table!"  
  
"Maybe I am," Peloren replied then, a little sharply, ere he said, "Can we please just let it lie?"  
  
At that, Torlas snorted. "You're the one who drank the stuff!"  
  
"I don't mean that, I mean—" Peloren stopped then.  _Mayhap I truly am drunk still,_  he thought, for he really had no desire in him to have this conversation, for with Andrahar back in Dol Amroth, a confrontation with Celdir over his irksome habit of harping on the Southron's unwelcome presence was something he could do without.   
  
But: "What do you mean, then?" Torlas was asking.  
  
"Nothing," he replied, as he grabbed a shirt and began scrubbing.   
  
Unfortunately, it seemed Celdir was not ready to let it lie. "It did not sound like 'nothing,' to me," he said, and gave Peloren a queer look. "What is it?"  
  
"Just leave it, Celdir," Peloren urged.   
  
"Look, if I have offended in some way—"  
  
"Celdir," Aldan broke in then, "let him be, lad, it's holidays after all."  
  
"So it is. And I'd not end them badly, so let's have it, Pel," Celdir insisted, shooting Aldan a glare, before turning once more to Peloren. "What matter?"  
  
For a long while, Peloren said nothing, wishing vainly that he had gone back to bed instead of rising. But even as he frantically sought an excuse or at least some way of softening the complaint, Aldan spoke again.  
  
"I don't see that it needs much explanation, Celdir. There's no one in the Fledglings' Wing hasn't heard you go on largely about the cursed Southrons and everything to do with them whenever there's someone to hear it," he said quietly, and paused a moment ere he concluded: "Most lads learn young to stop pissing in their own sheets; let it be and stop throwing what's dead done with in Peloren's face."  
  
Blunt words, and bald as the South Docks drawl they were delivered in, yet blunt words served but to sharpen the point. The silence was leaden now, and Peloren was aware of the resentful, disdainful look that both Celdir and Torlas were giving Aldan, who merely stared back, seemingly unperturbed. Which was hardly fair, Peloren thought as he struggled to think of something to say, something that might salvage the situation.  _Something...!_  
  
But Celdir beat him to it. "This is not your affair," he started to say, but Aldan cut him off.  
  
"Nor is it yours—so leave off."  
  
"Now just a minute—" Torlas began, at which point Teilin shook his head and said:   
  
"The man's right, lad; give it a rest, for Valar's sake!"  
  
"You forget yourself," Celdir snapped, and then rounded on Peloren again, his face dark with anger, and he lifted his chin slightly, eyeing Peloren expectantly. "Well?" he demanded, and Peloren knew right well what was meant.  _Will you let this **peasant**  no-blood speak for you?_   
  
It was a question Peloren wished he had a ready answer to, and preferably one that would calm the snakes' nest he had been seeking so to avoid and which boiled now all about him. "Celdir," he managed after a moment, then hesitated, feeling caught in a vise, for he could feel Teilin and Aldan watching him intently across the way, feel their silent claim on his loyalty that strove with Torlas' and Celdir's expectant regard.  _And there is still the matter of Andrahar and debts, all the rest aside!_  "It's not to say I'm pleased with Andrahar being here, only—"  
  
"Only what? That you agree with him?" Celdir asked, jerking his head at Aldan. "For I do not see there is anything to debate, otherwise, as... plain... spoken as our brother is in his opinion."  
  
"Can we not simply agree to speak no more on this?" he asked, desperately. Celdir snorted. Torlas muttered something that sounded much like, "There's Southern friendship for you!"  
  
"If you like, then we'll speak no more," Celdir replied frostily, and with a nod, he and Torlas both scooped their laundry out of the tub and departed to go spread it to dry. Peloren stifled a groan and leaned against the rim of the washtub, staring fixedly into the water.  _Wonderful!_  he thought, sarcastically.  _Now I can be hated from two sides instead of one!_  He doubted Celdir, after his lofty disdain for the 'pranksters' who had plagued him and Elethil all the past term, would stoop to stealing his work or inking his clothes or anything of that sort. But there were other ways of making one's displeasure felt, several of which left bruises...  
  
"Pel?" Aldan's voice interrupted his unhappy reverie just then.  
  
"Did you have to say that?" Peloren asked, without looking up.   
  
"It's nothing that wasn't on your face lad, and that one notices such like," Aldan pointed out, before he added more firmly: "And it needed to be said: he's an insufferable boor on the best of days, and it's not been the best of days for a long while now."  
  
"You know he and his friends will be after Elethil and me, too, now?" Peloren demanded, glancing up to eye the older man, who cocked his head at him.   
  
"A bandit and a bursar can't go all the way down the road to Elostirion together, Pel," he said after a moment. "And you're neither the one nor the other anyway: you are an esquire of Dol Amroth. Save your sighs for the lasses; do not waste them on a lad like Celdir!"  
  
"It's not that I care for Celdir or Torlas or their friends, Aldan, you know that," Peloren shot back forcefully. "But I have enough enemies! And with Andrahar back and set over me—!"  
  
Teilin and Aldan exchanged looks, ere Aldan sighed. "Pel," he said, chiding gently, "you were drunk yesterday and it's left you querulous and womanish. This is nothing so bad as you make it out to be."  
  
"And I suppose you would know! Have you heard what Haradrim do to their enemies?" Peloren demanded.  
  
"I've  _seen_  what they do to their enemies," Aldan replied, quietly, a rather flinty cast to his eyes as he brushed lightly at the scar upon his cheek. Peloren felt the heat rush to his face then.  _Idiot!_  he berated himself, and felt the blush deepen when the other said, firmly: "Get yourself up off the floor, Pel."  
  
He was right. Peloren knew he was right, but the other's tone stung, and he felt torn still over the argument with Celdir, feeling much abused by all sides. And so rather than admit it, he simply drew himself up, and said coolly, "I appreciated your help yesterday, but I've no need for you to be my minder. I can attend to my own business. So leave it alone: it is none of your affair, no more than it is Celdir's." So he said and looked down his nose at Aldan, the habits of his upbringing coming then to the fore, for a lord of Gondor, as his father had taught, need not answer to those beneath him.   
  
Aldan stiffened at that, and Teilin's face was utterly still. But then Aldan grunted softly, even as he wrung out a pair of trousers and hung them over the side of the tub a moment. "As you like it," he replied, and then put his head down and attended to his laundry even as Peloren opened his mouth to reply.   
  
"Aldan—"  
  
"Friends we are, lad, if you'll allow it," Aldan cut him off, "but if you don't want to hear from me on this, best you see to the wash right now."  
  
Peloren hesitated, feeling his heart sink still further, but then he simply obeyed. In truth, he had not the stomach for the moment for another argument, and he  _did_  have other things he needed to do that day besides washing.  
  
Still, it was quiet in the laundry after that, for neither Aldan nor Teilin spoke again.  
  
  
  
  
Some while later, having left his laundry to dry under the watchful eyes of the laundresses, Peloren knocked on Elethil's door. Somewhat to his surprise, it opened to reveal Elethil, his hair still rather wet and clinging to his face.   
  
"Good morning," Peloren offered, and gave his friend a searching look. "How are you?" For Elethil still seemed somewhat weary, and with a bit of shadow under his eyes. But:  
  
"Better," Elethil replied. "You?"  
  
"Fine," Peloren lied. "Could we talk a moment?" Elethil shrugged and swept an arm toward his room. Peloren entered, but did not sit, too anxious to settle. Elethil shut the door, then went and sank down onto his bed, where lay a few pieces of armor and a needle and thread stuck into one of the leather straps. But Elethil set aside his repairs and he leaned his elbows on his knees as he gazed up at Peloren.   
  
"What is it?" he asked.  
  
"News good and bad, I suppose," Peloren replied, and commenced to tell of the argument—both arguments—in the washroom. Predictably, Elethil did not take it well.  
  
"Varda's darkened stars!" he swore viciously when Peloren had finished the tale. "So now Celdir and his lads will be on us as well!"  
  
"As like as not," Peloren said glumly, then gave a small, helpless gesture. "On the other hand, 'tis all endurance anyway, is it not? Whether he cozens us or not, he's ever been one to bear."  
  
Elethil grunted. "Mayhap so, but every shoulder has to dip sometimes. The masters, sergeants, Faldion's lads, Andrahar, and now Celdir and his lot, too..." He trailed off and shook his head, then gave Peloren a doubtful look. "Faldion's lads are bad enough; but you know how Celdir can be. You remember how he was with Andrahar."  
  
Peloren's mouth thinned to a tight line as he nodded. Not, of course, that he could claim to be any better in truth. Not, given his own offenses, and yet...  _And yet,_  he conceded. Certainly, they had all, over the years, pulled pranks on Imrahil's humorless friend and generally treated him poorly. Peloren had been responsible for several long nights in the laundry for Andrahar, and he supposed his own recent close acquaintance with that damp abode might be accounted only justice. Celdir, though...   
  
"I suppose I always did wonder why Valyon did not think to pick Celdir at least, if not Torlas or Iordel when he gathered the rest of us," Peloren said slowly.   
  
"Because he's a faithless, tarty popinjay who would have found a way out, likely, for fear of getting caught, and Valyon knew it," Elethil replied bitterly. Peloren raised a brow.  
  
"You're in fine form today," he remarked, a little startled by his friend's vehemence.  _Though perhaps I ought not to be,_  he thought, chagrined, recalling Aldan's rebuke.  
  
Elethil hung his head. "Forgive me," he said after a moment, exhaling audibly. Peloren waved a hand.  
  
"Never mind that, Elya. We'll bear up somehow."  
  
To that, Elethil only grunted in a rather non-committal manner, ere he asked, "Was that all the news?"  
  
"Well... no. Not exactly," Peloren said, hesitating a bit.   
  
"What then?"  
  
"I've been thinking, since Aldan and I quarreled, about what the Armsmaster told us on Yule: that we should try to come to terms with Andrahar," Peloren replied. Elethil sighed, closing his eyes as if in pain, and Peloren hastened onward. "I know 'tis no happy thought, but listen a moment, Elya! 'Twill get no better if we wait; we ought to try to speak with him, to come to some accommodation."  
  
Elethil lowered his eyes a moment, but then he nodded. "I had given some thought to this as well, and you are right: we ought to do it before we are put under his instruction. But how should we even approach him? He's Haradric—how does one go about settling a score like this in Harad without getting repayment in kind?"  
  
"I don't know. But we know someone who could tell us."  
  
Elethil frowned a moment, clearly running through the other esquires in his head. It took him a moment, before he gave Peloren a sharp, startled look, and asked: "Imrahil?" And when Peloren nodded, Elethil bit his lip. "I don't know, Pel. Imrahil has always held Andrahar dear. Even before the Prince agreed to let Andrahar make a trial as an esquire, you remember Imri always brought him along, even right out onto the field. Or he did as soon as Andrahar was well enough for it. You know he holds him close as his own blood. He may not wish to see us."  
  
"But we would be trying to come to terms with Andrahar: surely that would please him. We need help, Elya, and who better than Imrahil? He knows Andrahar, and he's always been fascinated with the Haradrim, after all."  
  
"Valar only know why," Elethil sighed, but then shrugged. "Let us ask him, then. I suppose we might need to anyway: Andrahar has probably been abroad since dawn; Imrahil at least might be able to tell us where and when to find him!"  
  
  
So it was that the two of them went down the hall to knock on Imrahil's door, the Heir having abandoned his more luxurious suite to return to the Fledgling's Wing. And being Imrahil, when he at length answered the door, he looked as if he had only just risen, though it was mid-morning.   
  
"Peloren. Elethil," he said, and then quickly covered a yawn, though he did not quite succeed in covering over his surprise. But then: "Well, I suppose this is a stroke of luck. Come in, please," he invited, and so they did, exchanging a cautiously hopeful, if still rather wary, look between themselves. Imrahil at least seemed not displeased to see them, though why he should apparently have  _wanted_  to remained a mystery.   
  
"I suppose you two might as well take the bed; they really should let us have two chairs," the young prince said, waving them to their seat, even as he dragged the chair from his desk around and set it facing them. Imrahil sat, crossing one leg over the other and clasping his hands about his knee. "Before I say my piece, what brings you?"  
  
Peloren, with a glance at Elethil, replied, "We learned Andrahar had returned two days ago, my lord—"  
  
"'Imrahil,'" Imrahil interrupted, lifting a finger. "As of Yuletide, I am an esquire again, do not forget!"  
  
"Ah. Of course," Peloren quickly replied, and then pressed on. "Since he is back, and we needs must speak with him, we had hoped you might help us. You know the Haradrim better than we do: how should we approach him?"  
  
"Well, for one thing, I should say do better to hide your fear from him," Imrahil replied promptly, and both Elethil and Peloren looked at him in surprise. The Heir smiled slightly. "We talked last night, Andra and I. If it is any measure of consolation, he is as uncertain about the two of you as you are of him. He did mention your encounter, though, Peloren, and the one thing that he would say about it was that he did not care for the cringing, for it struck him as, well, slavish."  
  
"He surprised me," Peloren protested, feeling a flash of shame over that incident, though also of irritation. "I wasn't expecting to walk into him!"  
  
"Of course not. But you did wish to know how to approach him, and that at least he mentioned. As for other things... I do not know what to tell you, for he is conflicted himself. Harad's customs differ, but then, he has never been a very conventional Haradrim," Imrahil said, then paused, and by the slight, fond smile and the distant look in his eyes, it seemed clear he was remembering some private jest or incident. But it lasted only a moment: shaking his head, Imrahil finished, "Therefore, I think you should not be overmuch concerned with approaching him as one of the Haradrim. He lives here now anyway. Just say what you think needs saying when you see him, as you would if you apologized to any other brother-knight."  
  
"I see," Peloren said, deflating a little, for he realized he had been hoping for some rather more substantial assistance, some assured way of going about things. Still, that was no doubt foolish, and Imrahil had give them one piece of advice at least. "Thank you, Imrahil." And beside him, Elethil nodded his thanks.  
  
"I would be glad to see the three of you reconciled. Or just  _con_ ciled, I suppose," Imrahil said, with another of those slight grins. Peloren grunted, and Elethil sighed softly for the truth of that, but Imrahil continued, "And I should like to reconcile ourselves as well. I owe you an apology."  
  
This got a pair of startled, uncomprehending stares. "What apology?" Peloren asked at length.  
  
"The same I made to Andra: I acted a fool, and if I had not, the whole situation might not have arisen. Valyon might not have taken it into his head to thrash Andra, you might not have got caught up in it… it would certainly have spared both Andra and you considerable pain and discomfort," Imrahil replied. "For all that, I am sorry."  
  
For a wonder, it was Elethil who managed to find his tongue first. "You don’t owe us anything, Imrahil…"  
  
"But I think I do. My father at least believes I have some responsibility—I didn’t spend a year at sea on his whim!" Imrahil countered. "And I should not like to set myself against his judgment a second time. Well," he amended, with a charming, roguish smile, "not insofar as I am an esquire, anyway. He shall have to put up with me otherwise, I fear. What say you?" he asked.  
  
And so saying, he gazed upon them with that particular, earnest expression that almost never failed to move his opponents. Peloren could feel his own resistance wavering, for clearly, to refuse him would wound him. And so he reached out a hand for Imrahil to grasp, and when he had, Peloren said, "That I think we need say no more." Imrahil smiled.   
  
"Then we shall not," he replied simply, as he released Peloren to clasp Elethil’s hand. The Heir’s guests rose, then, and he with them. "I’m sure Andra is off practicing, but if you would seek him out this evening, then go to the knights’ quarters in the north hall, and it is the second door from the end of the eastern wing."  
  
"Thank you, Imrahil."  
  
"Good luck," Imrahil said frankly. And with that parting wish—or was it warning?—Peloren and Elethil departed.  
And perhaps that farewell had more effect than Imrahil had intended. After their visit to the prince, the two esquires went their separate ways to chores they had still to do ere the holiday ended. Lunch was set at noon, and Andrahar must have come late or not at all to the hall. For their part, Elethil and Peloren, desirous of avoiding newly acquired enemies, took their bread and meat and slipped away to eat on the back step of the kitchen. They sat there in the doorway and ate silently, feeling the heat of the night hearth at their backs, for it was kept stoked for hot water and stock and other such needfuls as could be made with but little oversight. Then it was back to work 'til supper, which was rather subdued at the esquires' tables.   
  
Andrahar was present for the evening meal—he sat near the end of one of the knights' tables, his dark head bowed. He did not appear to converse with anyone, though no doubt he listened. But he ate quickly and left early, and Peloren and Elethil, who were but halfway through their supper, exchanged uncertain looks.  _Does he go to his room or out somewhere else?_  The question passed plainly between them.  
  
Nor did they learn the answer. For as if on some unspoken agreement, as soon as they had finished, they simply returned to their rooms where Peloren, in anticipation of the morrow and after having checked carefully to make certain nothing was amiss, crawled into bed.  
  
 _Later, we shall seek him out,_  he told himself, as he drifted off to sleep.  
  
It was not the last time he would think that.  
  
  
For first week was enough to put anyone off his more leisurely purposes, or even some that might be more urgent than that. Given the dread that hung over the notion of confronting Andrahar to apologize to him, it was perhaps not terribly surprising that as the days of sweat and effort and exhaustion dragged by, somehow, there never seemed to be time enough to pursue him in the evenings or any other time.   
  
Not that Andrahar was difficult to find: as the Armsmaster's assistant, he was, as often as not, the one walking the lines of toiling esquires while the Armsmaster lectured or worked with another group. He would drop a lad here and there for some fault or take one to task for poor form. Or he would count off the turns on the rails Master Ornendil assigned sometimes when he was displeased with a squad's performance. There was nothing quite like walking ship rails in the harbor, in winter, with the wet and cold and occasional frost that made matters ever so much more difficult and falls that much more painful.   
  
Andrahar would stand by, wrapped in his cloak and a few extra layers, his breath rising in steam as he watched and criticized and as often as not ended by running them back up from the docks to the stables at break-neck speed. Were Peloren not so weary, he might have truly loathed the Southron, who, despite his much shorter stride, somehow managed to keep to the head of the pack of esquires without seeming to suffer much for it.   
  
Thus first week passed, and other than such confrontations as might occur between an esquire and a captain's assistant, not a word passed among Elethil and Peloren and Andrahar.  
  
"We must seek him out," Peloren said when the week was out, and he and Elethil sat wearily cleaning their armor. For the final day of torment, the Armsmaster had had them take the field against an unmounted company of battle-hardened knights in a lengthy skirmish to capture the flags of the respective companies. Given the gap in experience and the exhaustion of the esquires, Peloren thought they had not done too badly. Celdir, who had been in command of his squad, had even put one of the knights' companies on the defensive for a time.  
  
But it had not lasted, alas, and in any case, it had been a long, hard morning of chasing through muddy, ice-encrusted fields, in full armor and with their gear on their backs, and even that had not been the end of it. Lunch had been war rations wolfed down right there in the meadow, and then they had been sent off on a shoreline run before being allowed, at long last, to limp home and collapse. And, of course, take care of their mail and armor, which had needed much time in the sand barrels and careful polishing.   
  
"I suppose we must," Elethil conceded, wincing a bit as he cracked his spine. "But when?"  
  
When, indeed? "Soon."  
  
Elethil grunted, then sighed softly. "Soon," he repeated, and bent once more over his armor.  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
  
It might have comforted Peloren and Elethil to know that the subject of their pained resolutions had his own troubles to deal with. As were all who were intimately involved in the esquires' training that first week, Andrahar was up well before dawn to break his fast with the other officers, sergeants, and assistants, and spend a bit of time preparing for the ordeal of the day. Never mind that he had not as much running to do as the esquires did, he still had a good distance to go with them, and now of course it had to look effortless. Esquires, at least, were permitted to give a face to their weariness; not so, those who trained them.   
  
When he was not toiling through mud and strand, he had to keep a sharp eye out on the lists to catch mistakes, or demonstrate the proper form, and often enough, Ornendil gave him those lads who were struggling most to work with on the more basic moves. Evenings were more or less given over to punitive or remedial sessions, so that he ate late, and as a consequence Andrahar was rarely among his own company. Not even for sword drills, since his time was given over to instruction and its struggles all that first week, which rather had him fretting. It was no doubt fortunate that the esquires were kept too weary to notice any slips he might make.  
  
The esquires were therefore not the only ones glad to see the end of first week. The officers of the Swan Knights, commissioned and otherwise, settled into a steadier routine and, out of sight and earshot of their flock of fledglings, breathed a sigh of relief that it was over.   
  
"It is always good to be done with it. No one enjoys first week," Illian told Andrahar when he came to collect the young knight at the end of that last day, so that he could meet with Master Harthil, who oversaw instruction in languages. For with the return to a more regular schedule, the more scholarly pursuits were taken up again, meaning that Andrahar had to begin preparing for such as well.   
  
The language instructor, however, had not been in court during the Yule holidays, so this was the first opportunity Andrahar had been given to learn something of his other assignment as an instructor in Haradric. And truth be told, he was both curious and slightly anxious about the meeting, though he strove not to let it show as he walked at Illian's side towards the Master of Records' office.  
  
For Andrahar had met Master Harthil before, if only twice, and perhaps 'met' was too strong. He had  _encountered_  him before: once upon his arrival in Dol Amroth, when he had first been brought before Adrahil, and a second time, in passing, before ever he had been permitted to enter the ranks of the esquires.   
  
The first time, the man had been sitting in the Prince's dayroom, working, it seemed, upon some missive, as if he were a junior secretary to the Prince. The Prince, who had desired to be introduced to the Haradric stray his son had unexpectedly brought home with him, that he might judge for himself the wisdom of allowing Andrahar to remain in the Heir's company, had bidden Andrahar enter and be seated in very good Haradric and proceeded to question him, politely but firmly, about his past and his abilities. All the while, Harthil had remained in place, apparently occupied with some assigned chore and seemingly oblivious to the proceedings.   
  
Andrahar had assumed at the time, being far less familiar in those days with the customs of Gondor, that the man was a deaf-mute, such as high Haradric lords might employ as chamber servants when delicate matters needed to be discussed freely. Not until Adrahil had remarked upon his empty teacup, and Harthil had risen and, without any explicit instruction, brought the pot over to pour for the Prince and his guest, had Andrahar realized he had been able to understand them.  
  
Their second encounter had been occasioned by the behest of the head scribe of Dol Amroth, who, having heard from the Prince, no doubt, of Andrahar's linguistic abilities, had desired to learn whether he might be of use in assisting in the compilation of a more comprehensive volume on the dialects and languages of Harad. To that end, Andrahar had been summoned to give a demonstration of his proficiency in several of the major dialects of Harad, and a number of the minor ones, as well as the royal dialect of Khand.   
  
The head scribe had seemed pleased enough with him by the end of the day, and indeed, that work had eventually occupied much of the time that other esquires devoted simply to learning languages. But all that had been still to come when the scribe had dismissed him that day, and on his way out of the scribe's office, Andrahar had passed Harthil on his way in. Their eyes had met, and recognition flickered briefly between them. Harthil had given him a look then that had put a streetwise lad on his guard, though Harthil had swiftly glanced away and assumed an expression of abstracted scholarly distraction.  
  
But that one look had been enough to plant the suspicion that the man was more than he seemed. He had learned later from Imrahil that Harthil personally offered instruction in Khandian and Haradric to the esquires, and also that he was a member of Adrahil's staff.   
  
"What does he do?" Andrahar had asked.   
  
"Oh, this and that. Scribing, among other things, and he knows much of the customs of Harad and its history with Gondor," Imrahil had said airily, though Andrahar had got the distinct impression that his friend and lord had not desired to speak further on the matter, and so he had let it go.   
  
Now, as Illian ushered him into his office, Master Harthil rose from his seat and the language tutor and Andrahar spent a moment eyeing each other. A grizzled, thin man with a bit of a squint, Master Harthil was clearly no warrior, but Andrahar nevertheless felt wary of him. For it had occurred to him, after his conversation with Imrahil, that there must be many things that a man so gifted in tongues as Harthil apparently was, and so knowledgeable of Andrahar's people, might do on behalf of the royal house of Dol Amroth...  
  
"Master Harthil, I apologize that we are late," Illian said, and the scholar had inclined his head.  
  
"No need for apologies, Master Illian. It is good of you to arrange this meeting for us both. I would I had been available sooner, but I fear I had other business," he said, graciously. Then he turned to Andrahar, who made him a polite bow. The language tutor smiled slightly. "I do not believe," he said, in fluent Haradric, "that we have been formally introduced before." He held out his hand, and when Andrahar grasped it, switched suddenly back to Westron. "'Andrahar,' is it? 'The one drawn to the light'? Are you a pilgrim then?"  
  
And there came again that incongruously penetrating look that made Andrahar's spine stiffen reflexively as he recognized then the other's purpose. Which was why he answered, somewhat flatly, "If ever I was one, I am settled here now. And 'tis true, we have not been introduced, though I have seen you before, Master Harthil."  
  
"Indeed, you have," came the dispassionate reply, along with another shrewd, measuring look, ere Harthil let the matter drop. "I did not expect to have an assistant this term. I would I had been here during Yule, so that we might have had more time to discuss the matter, but..." He waved a hand dismissively. "I understand that you learn quickly. It will be good to have help with the Haradric, and I am told you have a fair grasp of Khandian as well, should you ever wish to teach it."  
  
"Thank you, sir, but I think it would profit us all if I kept to Haradric," Andrahar said quickly, for though not given to sentimentality of any sort, Khandian left a bad taste in his mouth after his time enslaved to Ulantoris.   
  
"As you wish. But let us speak of your duties in the coming days," Harthil said, as the three of them settled into chairs, and Andrahar last of all, out of deference to the masters. Feeling out of his depth, he clasped his hands together to still them, as he glanced between Harthil, Illian, and (as unobtrusively as possible) the door uncomfortably at his back.   
  
"You have not sat for any instruction in languages," Harthil was saying. "You had no need to, but this leaves you without any idea of what happens in a lecture hall. Fortunately, it is a straightforward task: your pupils have all had at least two years of study in Haradric. They need only to practice it, and particularly to practice speaking it. Converse with them, see that they read the assigned texts, and otherwise, you have more or less a free hand to conduct matters as you please."  
  
Which seemed a far less difficult assignment than he would have thought. "Is that all, sir?" Andrahar asked, somewhat surprised.  
  
"More or less," the scholar repeated.   
  
"Sir?"  
  
Harthil smiled humorlessly. "In terms of that 'less,' while I would hope you might convey to the esquires something of life in Umbar, as I believe you are called 'Andrahar of Umbar,' and also of life in Bakshir, for so I guess from your... speech," he said, after the barest of pauses, during which time Andrahar felt a brief flutter of fear in the pit of his stomach, "I would nonetheless prefer you kept away from certain subjects. The Prince's household has been entrusted with the formation of most of the noble youth in Western Gondor, and many in the more northerly provinces as well. Most fathers do not take well to their sons learning of the more... unusual... aspects of Haradric custom."  
  
Andrahar digested this speech, and the suggestively prim tone in which it was delivered and came immediately to a conclusion about what Harthil might consider the 'unusual' aspects of Haradric ways. For caste practices, ritual purgation, slavery, the bastard's taboo, and some of the strange outgrowths of certain religious sects, which all deserved to be called unusual in light of Gondor's customs, were nevertheless certainly not barred topics, for the esquires learned of them from other instructors. They might be highly regulated subjects, and Andrahar had always tended to bridle when he read Gondorian accounts of all such things, but however 'unusual,' they were part of an esquire's education, against the day when he might need such knowledge as part of an embassy or else on the field, when dealing with Haradric opponents.   
  
 _Which leaves me with but few remaining quirks,_  he thought, rather sourly, not liking the way Harthil looked at him. For it was impossible not to recognize the thought animating that gaze:  _pervert_. Not many knew about Andrahar's tastes when it came to carnal matters, and if Harthil did, it raised the question: from where or from whom had he learned this? Had he caught Andrahar out somehow on his own, perhaps having seen him with the rare lad or (even worse) discerned his love for Imrahil? That seemed unlikely, given the lengths Andrahar went to in order to avoid scrutiny where his intimate affairs were concerned.   
  
So had he been told of Andrahar's proclivities, on the grounds that, as Harthil had said, fathers in Gondor were not pleased that their sons should be exposed to 'unnatural vice', and that Harthil, as an instructor of young men, had a stake in knowing which of his assistants could not be trusted to condemn it appropriately? Illian's expression was masked, but he was not intervening, and Andrahar could not decide how he ought to understand that silence.  
  
At the very least, it  _felt_  rather unfair. For whatever else might be said of the esquires, Andrahar was quite convinced, given the repertoire of insults he had endured over the past several years, whenever there were no officers about to hear them, that the esquires needed him not at all to fill their minds with such scandalous notions. A genteel education did not prevent the esquires from finding their ways to brothels, nor spare them exposure to barracks talk. And though he  _was_ strongly of the opinion that most of them could stand to have the nonsensical, sensationally salacious half-truths forcibly knocked out of their heads, and that this did not require a sermon of any sort, it appeared that Master Harthil did not trust him in such matters.   
  
 _And perhaps he is right not to_ , Andrahar conceded grudgingly, as he cast about for some suitable response. Not because he himself had any desire to confront his fellows on a matter that was guaranteed to put him in danger of running afoul of the law (or having it run afoul of him, more likely, once irate fathers became involved) and which might well lead to questions about his own tastes that he had no desire to answer.  _But because no matter what I might say,_  he realized,  _the others will take it badly from **me**._  Having of necessity a practical nature, Andrahar abhorred nothing more than an ineffective effort, and particularly where it mattered greatly to him. So best, perhaps, to guard his silence on such matters and leave it to someone else—Imrahil, perhaps—to disabuse his fellows of their more outrageous misconceptions.   
  
Therefore, he firmly quashed his resentment, and replied, neutrally, "Then if you deem it best I avoid them, I shall avoid them, sir."  
  
Harthil gave him another long look, but nodded after a moment. "Then that is settled. There are some particular things you should know about some of your students that may help you." Harthil laid a hand atop a pile of folios stacked upon a corner of Illian's desk and said, "These are the end of term reports we keep on each esquire. Read through them: you shall find that some of them are persistently weak in certain areas of their instruction, and find also such remedies as we have attempted and found helpful or useless. They should help you to orient your efforts."  
  
Andrahar gazed upon the stack, which was of a respectable size, and sighed inwardly. "Thank you, sir," he replied politely.   
  
"Very well, then. I shall observe upon occasion and I expect to hear from you at the end of each month what progress or problems you have made or encountered. Good evening, Andrahar," Harthil said, and rose, prompting Andrahar to rise as well, though Illian remained as he was. "Master Illian."  
  
"Master Harthil," Illian murmured, and waited until Harthil had departed, ere he waved at Andrahar, somewhat impatiently. "Sit down, lad," he said, folding his hands before him. And when Andrahar had done so, continued: "I am sorry for that. It was not the intention to bring up matters too personal, but given the circumstances, and Harthil's experience in the South and also his sensibilities in such matters..." He trailed off.   
  
"Master Harthil seems very knowledgeable about a great many things, sir; I am sure his opinion is worth much," Andrahar replied, dutifully. Illian grimaced, and the young knight dared to press: "He is not simply an instructor in language, nor only one of the Prince's staff, is he?"  
  
Illian raised a brow at him, but after a moment, he shook his head. "No, he is not," he replied and said no more, which was telling enough, in its way. But he hastened to add: "But what he  _is_ , and for our purposes that is what matters, is the best speaker of Haradric and Khandian that we have in court at this time—barring yourself, of course. So…" The Master of Records gracefully turned a palm upward. "Have you any further questions?"   
  
 _None fit to be asked, or that would be answered!_  Andrahar thought. For there was no reasonable way to ask whether Harthil's insistence on oversight came from the masters themselves.  _And if he is what I think he is, I will get no further answer from Illian or anyone as to what Harthil does for Dol Amroth,_  he reasoned. So: "No, sir, not at this time."  
  
Illian made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and he eyed the young knight closely. "Can you handle this, Andrahar?" he asked.  
  
 _Can I afford not to?_  Andrahar wondered, though he knew the answer already. Therefore he lifted his chin and said firmly, "Yes, sir."  
  
That seemed to satisfy Illian, for he nodded and straightened in his chair. "Very good. Then you have our thanks for your help, for there are not so many who can serve in this capacity." The Master of Records gestured towards the door. "It has been a long day. Go take what rest you may—you have earned it as much as anyone this past week," he said. "And call upon me should you feel the need for assistance in any matter."  
  
Andrahar stood, scooping the pile of records up. "Thank you, sir," he said, and bowed slightly before quietly departing. And though he had some time before supper which might be put to profitable use in the salle, he decided he might as well begin reading.   
  
 _For I would rather the whole of tomorrow for my own purposes, and night is the best time for tedious reading._  So decided, he retreated to his own chambers where he lit the lamps in their sconces and upon the desk at which he settled himself with the reports, and he began to leaf through them.   
  
He had managed perhaps ten of them before the bells rang, tolling the hour and announcing supper. Andrahar set his work aside to join his fellows in the hall, where he sat near the end of one of the knights' tables, listening to the low hum of conversation, watching as men settled beside each other to eat and talk with the ease of long familiarity. It made his own as yet friendless presence at table feel all the more awkward. For though Andrahar had got by for years on his own, and prided himself on needing no one's favor, his time in Dol Amroth, in Minas Tirith, and even his season with Thorongil had not been without effect. Having had a taste of steady companionship, he missed it now.  
  
Yet lacking Imrahil's charm or easy, outgoing manner, he found himself disarmed, adrift, unsure how exactly to go about seeking a remedy for that lack. He had had but little practice befriending others, and particularly not across the disadvantage of rank he still felt as the newest white belt among the Swan Knights. Trust, after all, was something he had always perforce been sparing in, for there were few in Harad for a bastard son of a lord to trust, and even fewer for the out-caste, escaped slave. And as an esquire, he had ignored the others who disdained or ignored him, for there had always been Imrahil, and so he had not felt the need for other friendship.  
  
Beyond that, there remained the question of how his new, knightly peers viewed him, whether they might not see still the Haradric cur—Imrahil's strange lapdog elevated to the incongruous rank of hound, as Yuletide court gossip more or less had it. Add to that his long time away from Dol Amroth, and then a week of odd hours, and he felt a stranger at table, so that Andrahar found himself glancing every so often towards the esquires, and wishing longingly for Imrahil's company.   
  
But his friend was ensconced at the lower tables among other friends, looking rather weary, but relieved that the week was done with at last. As was usual when first week was finally over, the esquires evinced a mixture of exhaustion and elation, chattering rather giddily amongst themselves. It was strange to think it had been more than a year since last he had sat with them—more than a year since he had had to face the twice annual trial of that first week of the term.   
  
His own tablemates were less animated in their conversation, though not a few of the older men cast an amused eye over at the esquires. "Heard they got around you and the sixth squad today, Remarin," one of them, Cirendur, said, and nodded at one of the young knights further down the table.  
  
Remarin shook his head. "Bound to happen sometimes, and we had the lower side of the field."  
  
"I just hope it shall not happen with the Haradrim!" came the retort.  
  
"We retreated in good order, and in the end we did turn them," Remarin replied without fuss. "I will say, though, that either they're luckier than we ever were in such drills, or else some of the lads are getting cannier with time. I think it was Celdir's squad that flanked us. Not the best swordsman, perhaps, but he has an eye for advantage and it seems he can get a company to follow him."  
  
Sergeant Barcalan, who had been one of the judges of the exercise, snorted softly. "Aye, he has the eye to make a good tactician, and in full cry, he has the benefit of his station and knows how to use it. Thus the lads will go along with him. But he needs more than that before I'll recommend him to my place with an easy heart." Barcalan paused to chew thoughtfully on a bit of fish before he gestured to Remarin and concluded: "Next time the Armsmaster sends you up against them in a few weeks, give him a good lead—I want to see whether he'll stick his neck out or not, and if he does, how he'll get out of it."  
  
" _If_  he gets out of it, sergeant," Remarin replied, whereupon another of the younger knights, Sildar, interjected:  
  
"I would not be so certain he shall be at a loss, Remya. I was on that field, too, and he nearly had you today."  
  
Remarin grunted. "I have not said otherwise," he said. "Nevertheless, he shall not get another chance like he did today. We cannot have the esquires outmaneuvering knights, after all!"   
  
"Mayhap not, but it happens," Sildar said pointedly, and glanced suddenly down the table. "Does it not, Andrahar?" Andrahar, who had not expected to be included in this conversation, stiffened slightly as attention shifted to him. "You took down the Fountain Guard's captain this summer, did you not?"  
  
"Aye, but I was not an esquire then," Andrahar replied quickly.   
  
"You were close enough," Sildar declared, dismissing the difference. But before Andrahar could decide whether that reflected well or poorly upon him, Sildar continued: "And even before then, I seem to recall not every Swan Knight came out of the esquire practices with his pride intact after facing you!" Which was true, and surely no one needed him to confirm it; but what then should he say? Fortunately, Sildar seemed less interested in his response than in pressing his point. Leaning an elbow on the table, he leveled a forefinger at Remarin and said: "The which being so, I shouldn't be surprised if the good sergeant hasn't got a double play in mind—whoever wins, it shall be a lesson to the loser!"  
  
At which comment, Barcalan merely quirked an eyebrow. "Be careful, Sildar, or you'll be carrying an anchor yourself one day," he said mildly, and brushed the patch upon his shoulder, which bore his sergeant's anchor. Sildar grinned and got a sigh and a shake of the head for his trouble, ere Barcalan glanced round the table at his fellows.   
  
"The esquires will be in our company soon enough. Hope, then, that they do become a match for you. Just be certain," he cautioned, and pinned Remarin with a meaningful look, "that they earn their victories. Or I promise, you'll look back fondly upon first week as a milk run!"  
  
  
With that promise hanging over all their heads, Andrahar and his fellow knights retired after supper, and the Armsmaster's assistant continued his reading, forcing himself to stay at it until he was down to the last two. He rubbed his eyes and frowned at them, for in point of fact, he had set them aside deliberately: they were Peloren's and Elethil's records, of course. After a moment, he opened both of them, set them side by side, and began reading.   
  
Nearly all the nobility of Gondor had a useful knowledge of Sindarin, and Peloren and Elethil were no exception. The report upon their initial test in that language showed them both fluent in it, and so forbidden from using it as one of the two languages every knight had to know and be able to write in. Only commoners and those who showed definite shortcomings in Sindarin were permitted to let that stand as their second required language. Andrahar supposed he had been lucky, Harthil's words notwithstanding, not to have been forced to learn it, though he had of necessity picked up a little of it.   
  
Of the remaining tongues offered, quite a few of the esquires chose to learn Rohirric, a small number opted for the Bardings' native tongue or else Khandian, and the remainder studied Haradric on the assumption that it was wise to know one's enemy. Andrahar knew very well that Gondorians generally found Haradric difficult, changing as it did to accommodate caste and sex, as well as its peculiar emphasis on rhythm and breath. According to the records, Peloren seemed an indifferent student, neither struggling too greatly nor showing any particular aptitude for the language, while Elethil seemed to be coming along just barely well enough to pass in his written work, though Harthil's notes suggested his spoken Haradric was weaker than his written exercises.   
  
 _And if I must correct their speech, then it promises to be a long term with Elethil at least,_  Andrahar thought unhappily.  _And that all aside from what lies between us..._  
  
Which ugliness reared its head at that very moment, for as Andrahar turned the page to see whether there were anything else Harthil or other instructors had to say of his former classmates' scholarly abilities, he discovered not a report upon their work, but a report of an entirely different sort. Although the hand was constant—clearly, the same person had written out the different copies—it appeared that all the masters, and a pair of distinguished colleagues, had had a hand in its creation, for their names stood prominently upon the title page:   
  
 _Disciplinary report, considerations, and recommendations concerning the incident of Lithe 2974—Armsmaster Ornendil, Master of Horses Théorwyn, Master of Records Illian, Master Healer Kendrion (consulting), and Captain-Commander Valandil (consulting)._  
  
It was a sizable sheaf of papers, kept together by a string tied about them like a parcel, but they were not otherwise bound. That suggested a continuing report, something that the masters might be adding to even now. It was certainly thick enough to contain a year and a half's worth of material, though who knew what, precisely, was in it…?   
  
An awful temptation came over him, then. Andrahar was not a man to pry; he had been given the folios that he might prepare himself better to face his former classmates in one setting, and one setting only. He had therefore set aside unread all portions of his students' folios that did not speak to the duty he had been assigned. But this...   
  
The Prince had rendered judgment, and the fate of Peloren and Elethil was well-known, but of course that public reckoning could have been only one part of the response to so extraordinary an incident. Yet he had never learned, beyond the Armsmaster's initial concern for the integrity of the Swan Knights' eventual ranks, and the promise to prevent any future such occurrences, what the masters had thought of the matter. Obviously, they followed the Prince's judgment, but beyond that, he did not know how the matter had been played out among them, nor how Peloren and Elethil stood with them currently.   
  
If the number of pages were an indication of concern, then it seemed they were very concerned, yet what or who were the objects of that concern? And what of Captain Valandil's opinion, under whose command he now fell when he was not serving Ornendil's purposes? Andrahar had not come in for overmuch scrutiny from the captain. On the one hand, this was hardly surprising, given his lowly junior standing and the fact that he had been scarce on the lists this past week. On the other... did the captain share the sense he had gleaned from several courtiers that the whole matter was more a spectacle than serious? Just what did the captain think of having one of the Haradrim as Ornendil's primary assistant? What  _was_  Harthil's game, and had it indeed anything to do with any of the masters or Captain Valandil?  
  
 _As if that is your concern!_  conscience snapped at last. Andrahar shook himself. And then he stood abruptly, chair scraping on the flagstones, as he shoved the two folios away and then retreated almost angrily to the opposite corner of the room. There he stood and stared at the walls, hands restlessly worrying at the end of his belt.   
  
 _What is the matter with me?_  he wondered.  _When have I ever cared overmuch for such... gossipy... intrigues?_  He had no love for prurient curiosity, nor for the self-import of vanity, which wrought so many delusions out of innocent words and looks. It was not for that that he had ever kept an ear open to rumor and whisperings, it was simply prudence to know what passed among others, to know what he faced. And he had learned with a fair amount of precision in just what disrepute he was held by many over the years, which ought to have occasioned worried concern for himself. Yet he had never feared for his own safety, until Valyon and his lot had set on him, and even that concern had been more or less passing. It seemed that now, however, the scurrilous gossip of courtiers was enough to set him on edge in the face of no particular malice or even opinion among his fellow knights.   
  
 _Steady, lad,_  he rebuked himself, breathing in deeply, and then letting it out slowly. He turned and his eye fell upon the white sword-belt hung upon its peg.  _They have trusted you so far. The Captain and the masters do not play court games where their charges are concerned. Ornendil is no flatterer of men, especially not where sword-work is concerned; nor is Captain Valandil. And Master Illian told you Harthil has his... peculiarities._  It was dishonorable, really, to doubt them when he had not been given one shred of evidence that they had less than full confidence in him. The which being so, then what if his peers disliked or mistrusted him after all? What of it? It was no different from what he had experienced before, assuming they did indeed loathe him. No need, then, to be concerned.  
  
With that thought firmly in mind, he turned and made for the desk once more. And as he walked, he winced slightly, shrugging his shoulders. He arched his back, raising his arms above his head, pulling a bit one way, then the other, feeling restless, twitchy.   
  
 _'Tis past time I got back on the lists,_  he thought, then. No doubt his unhappiness with his own state of readiness was at back of his rather self-centered, suspicious, touchy musings of late.   
  
For though his disguise the past few months as a merchant had served the mission well, it had also had its disadvantages, chief among which was that he had had to curtail his practice: a merchant might carry a few daggers, but he would not carry a sword unless he were selling it. As a mercenary, Thorongil had carried a pair of scimitars—their practice in the double-hand form had not been, it seemed, wholly a matter of mutual whim—which had at least given Andrahar a sparring partner and a weapon whenever they could find privacy enough for such exercises. But privacy tended to mean lack of space, too, and his form had suffered for it.  
  
He  _had_ , of course, carried several daggers, all of which he had diligently practiced with, or Thorongil's skill notwithstanding, they would never have escaped the border patrol. And the moment they had crossed into Gondor, Andrahar had gone back to daily practice with the scimitar. Nevertheless, so protracted a disruption of his training routine greatly irritated him, and the week of running esquires ragged had not left him time enough to maintain what form he had, let alone improve it. The prospect of teaching students, even if only as Ornendil's assistant, in such condition, woke a definite fear in him, for Andrahar was not one to give anything less than his best. Unfortunately, his best was not at the moment available to him, and his frustration was visceral.  
  
A man of no substance was a man at the mercy of the tin-plated tongues, ran the wisdom of Haradric sages. He would be wise, then, to regain his particular substance, and quickly, so that the tin tongues no longer weighed upon him, nor would he be tempted to put their whispers into mouths that had thus far said nothing to offend.   
  
 _And then mayhap I shall worry less about Peloren and Elethil, too!_  
  
Tomorrow, then, must begin early and end late, if he was to recover something of himself. Andrahar therefore shuffled Peloren's and Elethil's folios carefully back into order with the others and snuffed the lamps upon his desk and in the sconces.   
  
Then he stripped out of the several layers that he wore in a futile effort to keep the cold out, exchanging them for his nightclothes. He hung his clothing neatly in the clothespress, but quickly, too, for the chill wormed its way in just as swiftly and by the time he had finished, he could feel the gooseflesh on his arms. Closing the drawers, he made haste to dive beneath his blankets, poking his nose out only in order to blow out the candle upon the bedside stand. Then he burrowed back under the covers.   
  
Cocooned against the winter air and with one hand thrust under his pillow where lay his familiar and trusty dagger, Andrahar fell instantly asleep.  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
However, true to his intentions, Andrahar rose early on his first day off since the day after Yule. The cooks in Dol Amroth were already astir, so he was able to wolf down breakfast before heading out to the salle with the rising sun, having already settled upon his schedule for the day.   
  
Since coming to Dol Amroth four years ago, and as soon as he had recovered enough for such exercise, he had always begun his day with a few hours devoted to blade-work, and he was pleased to take up that habit once more. As others arrived in the salle and, after stretching for a time, began to spar with each other, Andrahar remained apart, hard at work with first daggers, then scimitar, and finally sword, 'til he was satisfied he had gone through every single form he knew at least once point-perfect.   
  
Only then did he join the others for a little sparring practice. He tried Cirendur, and found him congenial enough as a partner; went a few rounds with Sildar, who fought sword and dagger with him; challenged a dour-faced knight named Valmir, and was a bit disappointed with a string of relatively easy victories; and was finally challenged in turn by Barcalan, who, after a lengthy and fiercely contested round, ended by beating the tiring young knight decisively.   
  
"Not bad," the sergeant said, and gave him a hand up. "Have a little patience, Andrahar—you'll not make up for months away in a single day, you know."  
  
"Yes, sir," Andrahar panted, sounding nonetheless determined to do just that. Barcalan shook his head, then clapped him on the shoulder.   
  
"That's enough for you for now. Go wash up and get something to eat, lad," he ordered.   
  
Having no other choice, Andrahar obeyed. However, he was back soon after lunch and spent another hour sparring before he excused himself from the others and went to become reacquainted with his horse, Bhraina, a rather lengthy process. Eventually, he joined a company of knights at tilting for rings, which was rather humiliating for him given how long it had been since he had had the means to practice such skills.   
  
"Give it a week or two," one of his new peers, a sergeant, Melethron, advised. "You'll have your seat back and your lance-eye soon enough. By the way, well done, about the Heir."  
  
"Thank you," Andrahar replied, a little shortly, and not simply because he was beginning to feel the strain of the day's rigors. For in truth, after Yuletide, he was beginning to tire of thanks for old deeds.  _It is not as if I would have done—could have done—aught else than I did! And 'tis done and over with more than a year now!_  he thought. If Melethron noticed his mood, however, he gave no sign, only nodded and moved to take his turn at the rings.   
  
Eventually, most of the knights drifted off to other duties or exercises. Andrahar, however, kept at it for some time after most of the rest of the company had retired, 'til he could feel the ache of tension all the way down his back and through every muscle in his legs. He then walked Bhraina back to the stables where he gingerly dismounted and made his stiff way about the stall, stripping tack and rubbing his mount down.   
  
That task done, he stretched painfully for a short while, then returned to the keep. After a long soak in the bathroom and the judicious application of one of Master Kendrion's unguents to saddle-sore parts, and yet more stretching, he joined the general stream of bodies to the great hall. Weary as he was, he ate his supper in silence, then excused himself to escape to his room. Having once reached it, he locked the door, and as soon as he had got out of his clothes and put them away, crawled into bed and was unconscious for some hours.   
  
But the next morning, he was back in the salle again, and every bit as early, even if he had to grit his teeth to get through the lunges and low-stance drills. He also had more company—when rest days came in sets, near the end of the set, the numbers in the salle or on the field tended to swell with men working up to a return to full practice.   
  
There were also more esquires hanging about the edges of the room today, watching their knighted peers anxiously, a little enviously, and going through their own sets of drills. Every so often, as he made a turn in a pass, or paused between drills, Andrahar would glance their way and catch a few of them staring at him. But none challenged him or moved to speak with him; as soon as he met their gazes, they looked away and settled back into their forms. But he could feel their eyes on him the moment his back was turned, and he grimaced slightly, and not only because getting out of a deep lunge hurt this morning.  
  
Predictably, he suffered more losses than he had the day before, including one to Remarin that greatly irked him.  
  
"The way you're working yourself, it will hurt as much tomorrow," Remarin warned, as the two of them lowered their weapons. The other gave him a grin that had just a little too much self-satisfaction in it for Andrahar's taste, especially when the next words were: "You might want to take it a little easier—you don't want to be caught out in a session with the esquires tomorrow!"  
  
"It will hurt as much tomorrow, and likely more," Andrahar conceded. "But if they catch me out, they shall deserve to."   
  
Which was perhaps not the most diplomatic or gracious of replies. Remarin's eyes narrowed, and his mouth thinned a bit, for Andrahar's words could hardly help but recall Barcalan's rebuke from the day before yesterday. However, Andrahar was not in the mood to apologize for that, particularly not when he agreed with both Sildar and Barcalan. He had been on that field, too, after all, if only as one of Ornendil's referees.   
  
Still, such comments were impolitic, and Andrahar did not particularly feel the need to try Remarin again—better to end matters before they truly got started. And so he said, by way of excuse, "'Tis nearly noon, and I had hoped to see to some other chores today. Good day, Remarin."  
  
"Another time, then," Remarin replied, coolly. "Good day." They saluted, as etiquette required whenever one came to the end of a sparring session, and Andrahar made for the armory to rack his practice sword, passing a group of six or seven esquires who hastily broke up into sparring sets in a pathetic effort to hide the fact that they had been watching him the while.   
  
Noon saw him washed, brushed, and ensconced in the library by one of the windows for a time, poring over  _Tes Khuvantin_ , a courtly chronicle compiled by Haradric scribes, and which Master Harthil had assigned for the new term. Andrahar, whose education in the literature of his own people had come to an abrupt halt at age twelve, had not had to suffer through the rigors of courtly prose for quite literally years. For though he had, out of pride and a need to defend his own from the tangential slurs of esquires, made an effort to pick up where his father's scribes had left off with him, he had never fancied himself a scholar of any sort.   
  
The which being so, if he had to spend his time amongst books, he preferred them to be either useful or else enjoyable. He had accordingly spent most of what few hours of free study he had ever devoted to scholarly pursuits reading  _The Warrior's Arts_ , a well-regarded manual of tactics, strategy, and meditation by the legendary Khaito, and other, similar tracts, or else feeding a long-held love of Haradric poetry.   
  
Alas,  _Tes Khuvantin_ , or 'The Annals,' as the Westron translation had it, were neither poetic nor useful, and certainly not enjoyable, to his way of thinking.   
  
They were not useful, for despite the long interruption of his own education, Andrahar could readily think of several histories that told more or less the same stories far more succinctly. And while  _The Annals_  were not completely devoid of style, what style they possessed conformed to the exceptionally long-winded, highly ornamented, cumbersome style of the courtly scribes, who delighted to write sentences that were nearly impossible to speak.   
  
Andrahar, murmuring words under his breath, found himself pausing frequently and rereading, seeking the right breaks that would let him say the words as written on the breath. Having little patience for such efforts, he was grateful when the bells tolled two o'clock, marking the end of his pre-appointed study.   
  
 _Even a few hours in the saddle will be welcome by comparison!_  he thought, wincing slightly as he rose.  _My horse has a steadier rhythm than these histories!_  Which did not make his afternoon any less painful, but at least the tilting yards served his own purposes. And he did finish by making six out of ten strikes on average, which did something to improve his mood.  
  
Which was a good thing, in the end. Andrahar finished late, as he had the day before, and as before, it took him longer than usual to complete the necessary grooming and care of his mount. By the time Bhraina was happily settled, it was getting dark. But he did not go immediately to the baths, for he had not taken the time the night before to deposit a change of clothes in the bath racks. He therefore returned to his room to fetch some and perhaps to stretch some of the stiffness out of sore muscles in private before going to clean himself up.  
  
He had only just discarded his cloak and hung his scimitar upon its holder, however, when a knock interrupted him.  _Must be Imrahil,_  he thought, habitually, and went to answer the door. However, it was not the Heir who stood waiting.   
  
"Good evening, sir. We were hoping we could have a word with you," Peloren said, and then eyeing Andrahar's sweaty, disheveled state, added, "But we could come back later, if you were so inclined." Elethil, ever the quiet one, hung back at his friend's shoulder, but he nodded, watching Andrahar anxiously.   
  
And with that look, all the irritation and uncertainty of the other night came flooding back. Weary as he was, and uncomfortably cool in sweat-damp clothing, to say nothing of sore and hungry, it was on the tip of his tongue to refuse and excuse himself to go wash up. But...  _They do seem—anxious. Sincerely so,_  he thought and so at length, mindful of his promises, he stood back, leaving them space to pass.  
  
"Come in, if you can excuse the poor reception," he said, plucking at his shirt by way of explanation. They apparently could excuse it, for they both entered, and stood quietly to one side, gazing about, all the while trying not to be obvious about doing so. Andrahar, covertly watching their furtive surveillance as he closed the door, wondered what they saw—what they had  _expected_  to see.  
  
His present accommodations were certainly more spacious than an esquire's, but were hardly less spartan. Hauberk and armor stood on their racks in one corner, and above them, on pegs, hung his scimitar, for the bastard sword preferred by the Swan Knights he kept with his tack, habit having led him to keep a weapon in ready reserve, just in case. There were a few books on a shelf above the spotless desk; the bed was narrow and neatly made, with a trunk at the foot of it, and upon the floor lay a rug, whose intricate, spiraling patterns declared it the product of some Haradric weaver—a gift from Olwen, he had been informed upon moving into the room.   
  
Other than the lanterns and the inevitable clothespress, night- and washstand, there were a set of four candles and a small, sand-filled tray with a few incense sticks all set upon a squat, two-tiered stand. Andrahar, noting that curious eyes paused on that last set of items in particular, quickly moved to ask, by way of diverting such attention:   
  
"What was it you wanted to talk about?" As he spoke, he moved to stand before his desk, drawing their gazes to him.   
  
At that, there was an awkward pause. Peloren's lips parted, as if he would speak, but then he frowned, seeming to try to collect his thoughts. The hour being what it was, and feeling rather cold standing in his clammy clothing, Andrahar at last sighed, and prompted, "Tonight, please, gentlemen!"  
  
His apparent impatience proved motivating, however: Peloren shook himself a bit, and said then, "I'm sorry, it's... ah... we wanted to apologize. For last year. We hoped we might settle the matter with you, sir."   
  
Andrahar lifted a brow at that. "Settle the matter," he repeated, feeling an odd tightness grip his innards. He stared at his erstwhile classmates, who waited in silence for an answer, Peloren gazing down at him with a blank expression that did nothing to hide his discomfort, Elethil with his eyes downcast, though he kept darting glances between Andrahar and Peloren, never quite looking Andrahar in the face. "You want to... settle with me. For the time—"  
  
"Yes," Peloren supplied quickly. "Yes, we would."   
  
There was an excruciating pause, during which time Andrahar fought the urge to squirm, and equally the urge to lash out at Elethil, who  _was_  fidgeting. And all the while he struggled to sift some coherent response from a mass of conflicted feeling, freighted with the achy weariness of a long day that threatened to numb all thought. It could not quite suppress the insistent sense that something was not right in this, but at the moment, he was simply too exhausted and dispirited to find words for it.   
  
 _How do we 'settle' this? How are we supposed to settle 'this'?_  he wondered, feeling a curious apathy (or was it futility?) wash over him. Which was likely why he said: "I do not see that we've much to do here, then. 'Tis done with, a year and more now."  
  
Two pairs of grey eyes blinked at him, surprised. And also confused. And wary. In a way, he could hardly blame them for that, for it struck him as wrong, too, but then again, the whole conversation was out of joint and none of them seemed to know how to right it.   
  
"I suppose that it is," Peloren replied at last, and cautiously. He glanced at Elethil, who bit his lip, shoulders lifting ever so slightly as he shrugged, uncomprehending. Peloren turned back to him, clearly indecisive, to ask: "Is that... all? Sir?"  
  
It couldn't possibly be everything. The very question was absurd, but for all that, Andrahar had no way of answering that absurdity. Frustration set in, yet frustration did not give him a way to start this conversation over again. It did, however, end it.   
  
"Unless you have anything else to say?" he asked, without much hope, and was not surprised when both of them shook their heads. "Then..." He shrugged and gestured towards the door.   
  
"Good night, sir," Peloren said quickly, and he and Elethil beat a hasty retreat, apparently unwilling to test their fortune. Still, as Peloren departed, he gave Andrahar one last, odd look over his shoulder ere he shut the door behind himself and hurried off.  
  
Andrahar, meanwhile, set his hands upon his desk and leaned back upon them, drumming his fingers upon the wood in an agitated fashion. His stomach growled, but that strange tension remained, like a hand fisting in his gut, and all of a sudden, he hunched his shoulders, wincing slightly at the pull of tight muscles, and then he shivered. He needed to warm up—to get the knots out so he could digest matters.   
  
With a sigh, he shoved away from the desk and stretched his arms, then flexed his wrists so that the daggers he wore up either sleeve sprang into his hands. He gave each of them a practiced flip, feeling their weight, then nodded and resheathed them. Grabbing his cloak once more, he swept out of his room and headed back to the practice salle with its promise of exhaustion.  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
Meanwhile, in the Fledglings' Wing, Peloren and Elethil shut themselves in Elethil's room, where Peloren lit the lamps in their sconces then went and dropped immediately onto the bed. Elethil stood leaning back against the door. For a time, they were silent, 'til at length, Peloren glanced up at his friend and said, "Well, that might have gone worse."   
  
Elethil grunted, lips thinning as his brows knit. He did not seem in the least relieved by the evening's confrontation. "It might have gone better, too," he replied. Giving Peloren a grimly anxious look, he warned, "He hasn't forgotten a thing, you know."  
  
"Neither have we," Peloren countered gently. But he waved a hand and nodded, forestalling objections. "I know, I know what you mean. Yet it is a reprieve, at least. The Armsmaster  _did_  say that the masters and Captain Valandil had spoken with him about us. Mayhap he took somewhat to heart."  
  
"Assuming the masters aren't as eager to see the backs of us," Elethil said, darkly.  
  
Peloren sighed softly. "Elya, I know it has been a long term, but they have been fair with us, I think." To which, Elethil muttered something under his breath as he shoved away from the door and moved to sit heavily upon his chair. "What was that?" Peloren asked, but his friend shook his head.  
  
"Nothing. Never mind," Elethil replied tiredly, and pushed his hands through his hair. "It's just that it's going to be as long a term this time, too. Maybe longer. Because whatever he may say, Andrahar is not going to let us forget our faults. And now we have Celdir and his lot on us, too, and you know them: they don't pull pranks, Pel."  
  
Peloren did not answer immediately, for in fact, Elethil was right. Oh, here and there, yes, of course they played pranks—everyone did from time to time, and there was not an esquire on the hall who had not, at one point or another, given another his due in humiliation for some infraction or other.  _Well,_  Peloren amended to himself,  _with the possible exception of Andrahar, that is. He might have guarded Imrahil's back a time or two for that sort of thing, but I don't think he ever did it himself._  No, Andrahar was not the sort for that kind of discipline.   
  
And neither were Celdir and his friends—not when it came to defending a sleight to honor or friendship. "How much worse can it be than what Faldion's lot do?" Peloren asked after a moment, in an effort to find some perspective on the matter.   
  
Elethil snorted. "You remember the time Celdir ended up on water rations, don't you? He broke Galmar's arm, Pel."  
  
"And both of them admitted they had been quarreling—that they sought each other out. Celdir said it himself—he let his fury take him and did not realize how hard he struck."  
  
Elethil stared at him. "You're the one who said then that he had a vengeful streak in him! And the sergeants thought so, too, when they saw that penalty imposed atop the two weeks of extra drills and latrine duty. They knew what they were about."  
  
Peloren sighed. "I am not defending him—not exactly. But listen, he cannot get away with that sort of thing twice, Elya. One time might merit punishment, but two is too many to keep him."  
  
"So he'll find another way to remember him to us," Elethil replied and shrugged. "And we'll still have to deal with Andrahar."  
  
"With courtesy," Peloren sighed softly, letting his head droop as he surrendered the effort at optimism.  
  
"Or it is over," Elethil finished.   
  
Silence fell once more. But eventually, Peloren sighed, then stood and stretched his arms over his head before letting them fall to his sides. "Master Théorwyn wants me in the stables early tomorrow to meet with Tarondor. I've got to get some sleep. You should, too, Elya."  
  
Elethil shrugged as he stood and walked Peloren to the door. "I will soon enough. There are some things I need to see to first."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Aye," Elethil replied, but did not elaborate. "Good night, Pel."  
  
"Good night," Peloren replied, slipping out the door and down the hall to his room. Just as he reached it, however, he heard Elethil call after him in a low voice:  
  
"Pel?"  
  
"Aye, what?" he asked, pausing in his doorway. He turned back to see his friend leaning on the doorframe, watching him.   
  
"You'll be careful tomorrow?" And the look he turned upon him was so very somber, Peloren felt a chill run through him.   
  
"Of course," he replied after a moment. "You take care, too."  
  
"Of course," Elethil replied. Then: "Good night." And he retreated and shut the door. Peloren looked after him a moment, then sighed and shook his head. He entered his room, lit the lamps, and made a swift inspection of his quarters. Nothing seemed to be out of place, and so he changed into his nightclothes and turned down the covers. Then he went back about the room blowing out the lights he had just lit, 'til at length there was but the one on his nightstand. He crawled into bed, arranging his blankets to his satisfaction before he leaned over and blew the candle out. Then he settled back and waited for sleep to come.  
  
But oppressed as he was by anxiety—about Andrahar, about Celdir and his friends, about Elethil, and about his own new duties—sleep did not come swiftly. Instead, his mind conjured tale upon tale of what might await him in the months to come, trouble in every shape and form. And it seemed he could not go far along any line of thought without encountering Andrahar.   
  
 _Because although it could have gone worse, it still didn't go well at all,_  he thought mournfully, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.  _Why can we not say what we mean?_  But the moment those dark and unyielding eyes had fixed upon him, everything in him had seemed to tremble and he had stuttered, and everything had become… lessened. Lesser. As if there were nothing behind the words he had thought to say. It occurred to him to wonder whether that was not in itself somehow telling.  
  
The third watch was ending before weariness at last got the better of him. He huddled down beneath the covers, and drifted off to sleep in the uneasy conviction that there would need to be an answer to that question one day…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Elostirion is the tallest of the towers Gil-galad had built for Elendil. It stands between the Shire and the Grey Havens, and housed the palantír that looked west to the Undying Lands. See footnote 2 of Appendix I.iii, RoTK, or else footnote 16 of "The Palantíri," UT, 432. For the purposes of this chapter, the important bit is that it is way the heck far away from Dol Amroth, and so represents a state or stage of things far down the line and that excludes certain company if you desire to attain it.
> 
> 2\. The dictionary project Andrahar was working on is a reference to chapter 1 of Soledad's Pawns and Symbols. I don't know that our stories quite follow the same course where Andrahar's personal history is concerned after that, but it's a good excuse to get Andrahar out of language lessons!


	6. Trials

And so the term proper began.   
  
Peloren found himself plunged into the world of a regular company, on the one hand, and on the other, the world of pages and their instructors. This meant he had mounted practice with the knights the first half of the morning, then switched to sword-work with them 'til noon, had lunch, struggled with Haradric and Illian's lectures on tactics in the early afternoon, and then spent the rest of his day working with the pages and less accomplished horsemen among the esquires 'til supper called them all within. After that, he usually spent an hour in the salle (unless he were assigned punitive duties or exercises with the esquire company he nominally belonged to), then went and studied 'til the clerks chased the esquires out of the library. After that, he usually fell into bed and slept like the dead 'til dawn, when he woke and did it all again.  
  
Yet for all that he was busy and weary, he did not complain, for with the new term, the pranks ceased. In part, this was no doubt due to the masters' explicit, strict instructions that none such occur. "You are not here to make mischief for each other," Ornendil had told them at the end of the first day of the term. "There have been an inordinate number of pranks and the like since last term: they end now. Should we catch anyone, the offender's squad will face punitive duty for failing to prevent insubordinate behavior. Moreover, the offender will face not only myself, but Captain Valandil, who will decide whether he cares to have him finish his training. Should a squad come under scrutiny more than once for harboring offenders,  _all_  squad members will face the Captain-Commander's judgment. But even if he decides to keep you, I promise you, Captain Valandil is less forgiving than am I when it comes to discipline."  
  
It was hard to imagine, after last term's punitive measures, someone less forgiving than the Armsmaster, which, combined with the threat of being sent home in disgrace, no doubt was largely responsible for the quiet in the Fledglings' Wing. Peloren had breathed a sigh of relief; if he had to deal with Andrahar, he would rather not have to deal with quite as much abuse from his peers at the same time. Which did not mean that he and Elethil were entirely safe from retribution, but it did help.   
  
Of course, the new intolerance of pranks was not the only factor in promoting Peloren to a relative peace. His own new schedule, which distanced him from his peers, and the clear favor of the Master of Horses, no doubt had something to do with the sharp drop in fraternal harassment. He was simply not as often available, and Master Théorwyn's favor made him a more dangerous target. Under the new rules, it was risking dismissal to pull a prank on a fellow esquire; to pull one on one of the masters' designated assistants was practically  _inviting_  it.   
  
Peloren could not but be grateful for that, but despite the reprieve, he fretted nonetheless. For his good fortune could not be shared, and Elethil remained bound to their peers. And although one might have expected that with the new distance the other esquires kept, he would settle, he seemed as weary as ever, and his mood more grim than before.   
  
"What is it, Elya?" Peloren asked once, when he and Elethil were studying  _Tes Khuvantin_  one night.   
  
"It's nothing," Elethil replied, habitually, and then gave it all away by blushing. Peloren frowned.  
  
"The others have not been at you again, have they?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, then, what?" Peloren demanded, puzzled. Elethil sighed.  
  
"Nothing. 'Tis just—" and there came a vague wave of the hand "—I've to master those forms we learned, and then there is all this reading for Haradric…"  
  
Nothing, in other words, that had not to do with those areas of instruction that put them under Andrahar's authority. Peloren understood then, and so let him be, though he still worried. For though Peloren, too, found the hours he spent under Andrahar's tutelage to anxious times, and the spur to much anxious study, he thought Elethil took it worse than he did.  
  
 _But Elya has always found Haradric more difficult, and 'tis not as if I have to endure Andrahar's instruction in sword-play,_ Peloren thought, feeling just a little guilty for his good luck. But guilt would not make matters better for his friend, and so he simply gave Elethil's hand a quick squeeze, and when Elethil looked up, offered what he hoped was a sympathetic, but encouraging, smile, before he bowed his head over his lessons once more.  
  
Thus the weeks passed. December bled into January, and then February, which made good upon its bad reputation, as storm clouds rolled south from the White Mountains, bringing frigid rain and winds. Dol Amroth's denizens huddled within the city's stone walls while the boats rocked in the harbor. The esquires and knights kept to the salle and the halls for much of the month, with one notable exception as March drew nigh. One wet, blustery day, Ornendil called a number of the esquires together after breakfast, disregarding varying schedules, for a game of king of the hill.   
  
"Spring is the start of campaigning season, lads, and while it is still winter, in other places, springtide is little better than this," Ornendil told the assembled esquires, who stood in their squads in the fields beyond the city, armored up, shivering, and equipped with a full set of practice equipment: wooden sword, a pair of wooden daggers, slings with 'soft shot' to give them some range weaponry, and short shields on their backs. There were no first year students among them, however, save those who had come up from the foot, nor even all the second years, which suggested something more trying than even their last skirmish had been. Something the masters did not trust less experienced lads to attempt, which left those tapped for this exercise wary.   
  
"Battle is not like the practice salle, as you ought to know by now. Nor is it always on the flats or gentle slopes. Take a good look, lads," the Armsmaster said, and swept an arm towards one of Dol Amroth's shorter, but unfortunately steep and rather treacherous, hills. "The healers have planted the flag at the crest of Badhon. Your aim is to find it and defend it."  
  
Faldion raised a hand then, and the Armsmaster nodded. "Sir, against whom are we defending it?" he asked.   
  
"You may well ask. First week's skirmish suggests that facing a full company is not yet within your means. So today, you will be facing three squads to your six," the Armsmaster replied. "One of them will be commanded by Master Illian, another will be commanded by Master Théorwyn. I shall captain the third. Your task, gentlemen, is to take the hill and hold it. As soon as the flag is captured, the attacking company has one hour to force the defenders to retreat. Whoever holds the hill at the end of that hour wins the contest."  
  
"And if we win, sir?" Faldion asked evenly, and Ornendil raised an appraising brow before such ambition.  
  
"If the esquires win, I'll buy every man on this field a drink in the tavern at the end of the week and Friday's sword practice will be voluntary," the Armsmaster replied, and an excited murmur went through the esquires. "However," he cautioned, "if you lose, you will be drilling in formation every evening until I am satisfied with your work. Are there any further questions?" No one spoke, and so Ornendil nodded. "Very well. Then take your marks, and listen for the signal horn to begin. Make me a poor man, lads, and I shall be the happier for it!"   
  
With that, the Armsmaster and his assistant departed to join the knights' squads that were forming up.   
  
"That is not a regular company," Celdir observed, looking after them, as he and the other esquire squad commanders gathered to discuss tactics briefly and array their men.   
  
"Sergeant Barcalan, Tarondor, Sildar," Faldion murmured, staring at the collection of seasoned knights, sergeants, and ambitious younger men forming up smartly on the masters.   
  
"And Andrahar," Imrahil put in pointedly, and smiled faintly at the dark looks this provoked. "Methinks the Armsmaster might not be so eager to be a pauper as he lets on. This ought to be... interesting. Shall we, gentlemen? We have not much time, and we have a flag to capture!"  
  
  
Some four hours later:   
  
"Still think this is interesting?" Faldion asked Imrahil, as muddy, disheveled, and disheartened esquires wearily trudged down the halls to the bathroom.  
  
"For lack of energy to think of another description, yes," the Heir replied, as he limped through the door that Celdir was holding open.   
  
Personally, Peloren would have chosen another term for the match, save that the word he had in mind would have violated his oath of courtesy. 'Disaster' was perhaps a diplomatic alternative, and somewhat less depressing than 'massacre' or 'slaughter.' Not that diplomacy made the end result any less painful, alas!  
  
"You all right?" Elethil asked in a dull-voiced undertone, seeing Peloren gingerly lower himself onto a bench to remove his boots, wincing and shifting about on it as he struggled with the buckles.  
  
"Fine. Took a spill trying to take the eastern spur of the hill," Peloren replied, a little shortly. For Ornendil's company had, unsurprisingly, reached the hillcrest first and ensconced themselves about the flag, forcing the esquires to attempt to dislodge them. During one such effort, early in the game, Celdir had led their squad east, attempting to take advantage of a thrust from two esquire squads on the north face of the slope. He had timed it well enough, for most of the defense was concentrated elsewhere, but the ground on the east side was loose and slick, and the way up led through a set of rocky protrusions. Approaching from below, there was only one way to the top: through the cracks riven into the rock-face, upon which Illian had posted lookouts.   
  
They had been spotted, of course, and the results had been predictable: in the narrow, stony gullies, they had been picked off by 'soft' sling shot or forcibly repelled by the men stationed at the mouths of the gullies, one of whom had sent Peloren careening back into two of his fellow esquires, who had not been quick enough to catch him, though they had at least broken his fall somewhat. Despite that, he had landed on his rear, to the feeling of shooting pain, then tumbled free of the short corridor and slid down the hill a little ways 'til he managed to find some purchase in the soft ground.  
  
That had most definitely left a bruise. Peloren was only unsure whether that was the extent of the injury. He was, however, extremely reluctant to submit himself to the healers, for obvious reasons, but given how much it hurt to sit down at the moment, he wondered whether he would be able to avoid the Houses. Nor was there much comfort to be had from even the very few friends he possessed: he was hardly the only one to suffer from the morning's little catastrophe, but while misery loved company, said company was more often preoccupied with his own aches and pains than sympathetic to those of his fellows.   
  
Of course, there was some consolation to be had in comparing misfortunes, he reflected, as he slipped into a tub (careful to kneel rather than sit). One esquire had actually slipped and fractured his shield-arm; another, Brelambar, had failed to replace a weak helmet strap and consequently had managed to get himself knocked out when he took a fall and the leather gave way and the helm tumbled free. The healers, who served as both referees and immediate assistance for serious injuries, had taken the lad off the hill on a stretcher and no one had seen him since.   
  
Otherwise, all of them had bruises from their encounters with rocks, or with the ground, or else their encounters with the defenders, who had been zealous in beating off the esquires' attacks, despite their fewer numbers. Torlas had marks all the way up his left arm: having lost his shield, he had had to rely on his ability to guard with a knife—a skill Torlas had not mastered sufficiently. Iordel kept cracking his left shoulder, trying to ease a sore, jarred joint. Even Imrahil had not managed to emerge unscathed, and would be walking with bit of a limp for a day or two before losing the stiffness in his right leg that came of failing to block a strike from Andrahar. Apparently, the Southron did not allow friendship to get in the way of warfare, and Peloren blessed the fortune that had kept them apart during the skirmish.  
  
On the whole, Peloren thought, as he clambered out and began toweling himself dry, they had given a dismayingly poor account of themselves, though there had been a few good moments, tactically. Their final push to drive the defenders from their posts had been strong, and Aldan had actually managed, almost by accident, to get through a gap in their opponents' front ranks, but not with any support. The breach had closed behind him almost immediately, and he had 'died' skewered by about five different people to judge by the bruising on his torso.  
  
"I hope Naleth doesn't take this too ill," Aldan fretted, gingerly pressing one of the purpling marks and wincing ere he reached for his shirt.  
  
"At least you made it to the top," Elethil murmured softly. But Aldan shook his head.  
  
"It's a funny thing, lad, but the 'glory' part of your 'dying for glory' matters less to a wife, especially a pregnant wife, than the 'dying' part," he sighed, then elbowed Elethil. "That's twice you've turned me down since Yule, lad—you were right behind me 'til nearly the bitter end. Next time, you're coming with, and maybe you can hold them off long enough for me to grab the flag before being spitted."  
  
At that, Faldion had snorted. "Next time, he ought to be in the rearguard. If he cannot keep to his feet, he can at least let others do their work without falling into them!"   
  
Peloren frowned and tensed, feeling the mood grow suddenly ugly as others, hearing that comment, turned to stare at the three of them, but more at Elethil than the other two. Aldan gave Faldion a glare, but then glanced at Elethil. Elethil was staring at the floor, determinedly doing up the buttons on his sleeves, and did not respond. At that, Aldan sighed again and closed his eyes, as if with frustration, while Faldion merely shook his head in disgust, and, after a moment, departed. Some of the tension in the room left with him, but not all. Peloren approached and gently pressed his friend's shoulder in silent support, but Elethil shook off his hand and left swiftly, too, without another word.   
  
Celdir, observing this, lifted an eyebrow, ere he said, in far too chipper a tone, "Well, I suppose we all do need formation drills. Iordel, do stop that or else go see the healers, will you? Come on!" So saying, he and several others, Iordel included, made for the door, leaving the others to finish up and make their own way to the hall for lunch before the afternoon practices and classes.   
  
"That lad is going to be more chewed than a dog's favorite bone if he will not stand for himself," Aldan said suddenly, his voice pitched low to reach Peloren only. The older man gave him a puzzled look, and asked, "Has somewhat happened lately? I thought pranks had ceased."  
  
Peloren blinked, surprised by this sudden speech, for they had not talked much since their argument, nor of aught of consequence. "I thought we weren't speaking," Peloren said, and perhaps more abruptly than he ought to have, to judge by the way the other's mouth tightened at his words. He sighed. "I'm sorry, that came out badly."  
  
Aldan grunted. But then he, too, heaved a sigh, and offered Peloren a slight, lopsided smile, and he shrugged a bit, tugging his tunic straight. "We weren't speaking. But I got tired of it just now," he replied, breezily. He cocked his head at Peloren, looking concerned once more. "Truly, though, Pel, what matter with Elethil? We are not in the same squad, but even I know he has been working himself to the bone."   
  
"Well, since he has been, it must be hard to feel nothing's come of it, would you not think?" Peloren replied, unwilling to say overmuch.  
  
The older man eyed him closely at that, but when Peloren remained impassive and seemingly unperturbed by this scrutiny, he seemed reluctantly to accept this answer. "It would be hard," he conceded. "Still, the way he goes at it… he's wearing himself down. If he is not careful, something will happen, some accident, and I don't like to think of what would come of that." He paused, chewing gently at his lip as he stared past Peloren, as if looking after Elethil still. But at length, he shook his head, and returning his gaze to Peloren, changed the subject. "Speaking of things happening, are you sure you're all right, Pel? You've quite the pinch-faced look!"  
  
"I can walk. I'm not certain about sitting, but I suppose I'll have to bear it," Peloren replied, and then asked, with more confidence than he felt: "How bad can it be, after all?"  
  
Aldan snorted. "Don't ask that," he advised. "It shall be a long day for all of us. Let us go eat, therefore, so we do not wilt before 'tis up! You can tell me how it goes, being Master Théorwyn's assistant. You're so often with him, even were we speaking, I'd be hard-pressed to keep up with your doings, lad."  
  
Which was true enough, and Peloren gladly fell to telling of his new duties, and not only to keep his mind off his bruised behind. Pages' training might be far simpler than that of esquires, but in many ways, it was more demanding, for all a knight's later work depended upon the groundwork of horsemanship laid during those early days. Aldan, at least, could easily appreciate the struggle involved in such a task, since he was little more advanced in many ways than the pages when it came to horses.   
  
"That is why Master Théorwyn has me at the stables and in the ring all afternoon," Peloren told his friend. "Next week, I have to teach them something of repairing tack, too. I suppose I should count myself lucky—since Master Théorwyn moved me into a regular squad of knights to practice mounted work, I shan't have to endure his contribution to preventing a repetition of today's loss! Instead, I can worry about Tarondor taking my head off in the skirmish our company has planned for this Friday!"  
  
"I suppose that means you never drill with Andrahar, if you are riding with a regular company," Aldan said, a little wistfully, as they took their laundry to their rooms for later cleaning, then headed for the hall.  
  
"No, we always seem to pass each other coming or going," Peloren replied. "But I hear enough about him, and 'tis not as if I haven't got him as an instructor every day for Haradric. Valar, he'll be setting examinations for us in three weeks!" Which meant he was not going to be getting much sleep, even if he managed to stay off of any punitive rotations.   
  
"How is he in the lecture hall?" Aldan asked.   
  
"You have had him in the salle?" Aldan nodded. "He is actually worse when it comes to Haradric."  
  
"Truly?"  
  
"That is what Elethil tells me, and he ought to know: he has him every morning for sword practice and every afternoon for language." And every night, as the two of them yawningly pored over the sections that Peloren daily copied from the library's edition of  _Tes Khuvantin,_  Elethil would curse Andrahar's name, fluently and with fervor.   
  
For as diligent as they were in their study of Andrahar's native tongue, their efforts seemed not to pay off in class.   
  
"All of you keep dropping the blended aspirants," Andrahar was wont to reprimand them. "The difference between 'I esteem your honor highly' and 'I enjoy your mother greatly' is two blended aspirants that may be the difference between a truce and a knife in your gut!"   
  
Peloren was careful to keep his head down during such moments, dutifully marking off the blended aspirants on his slate, though silently he cursed the language and often the instructor. Master Harthil had been a rather dry, dull lecturer, and utterly lacking in a sense of humor so far as Peloren had ever seen or heard tell of, but at least Harthil was not in love with the infernal language.   
  
That Andrahar was so enamored had become apparent rather swiftly, despite the Southron's usual reticence where the more tender feelings were concerned. Andrahar, whom Peloren had rarely known to express a preference one way or the other for anything outside of weapons, warfare, and Imrahil's safety, was not the sort of lover to go about declaring himself at every turn. But even to Peloren's unsophisticated ear for Haradric, there was a resonance, a pleasing 'cleanness', for want of a better word, and a facility to the way he spoke that Peloren would not have expected given Andrahar's apparently lowly origins. He even managed the ridiculously long-winded sentences of the  _Tes Khuvantin_  with grace.   
  
There could be no doubt about it—the Southron took pleasure not simply in the familiarity of his own tongue, but in speaking it well, and it pained him to hear it spoken badly.  
  
Alas, most of the esquires spoke quite badly indeed, or only indifferently, and it went without saying that most of their accents would identify them immediately as Gondorians. Thus they continued to sweat over such things as cadence, caste-forms, aspirants (blended and otherwise), half-vowels, and the all-important control of breath that Haradric demanded, while trying to curb their most egregious errors of pronunciation.   
  
Their efforts met with some limited success: a few of the older esquires, men who had come up from the infantry, seemed to be finding their feet in speaking, at least. And Torlas, much to Peloren's and Elethil's disgust, had actually developed something like a genuine accent, even if, according to Andrahar, he sounded like a merchant from Khambuluk rather than a lordling from Umbar.   
  
The merchant from Khambuluk was, however, far preferable to the Gondorian from Anfalas....  
  
"Pel?  _Peloren_." Aldan's voice broke through his reflections at last, and Peloren shook himself, then looked over at the other questioningly. Aldan raised a brow. "I said, lad, that you still look rather pained. I think you ought to see the healers about that fall you said you took."  
  
"I'll be fine," Peloren insisted. "It's just a bruise."  
  
"Bruises hurt, too," Aldan replied, but then held up his hands as if in surrender. "Very well! I'll wish you luck and if you  _do_ manage to go without a visit to the Houses, I'll make good on Ornendil's drink on Friday."  
  
"If I do manage it, I shall no doubt need that drink," Peloren sighed, then gave his friend a tentative smile. "I  _am_  sorry for what I said before in the laundry, Aldan, and sorry it has taken me so long to say it. You were only trying to help."  
  
"And it seems that that is the one thing you make a habit of refusing," Aldan replied, easily enough. But then he touched Peloren's arm, drawing him to a halt just before they reached the hall, and his expression was serious. "I owe you an apology as well—I should not have spoken for you, 'tis true, though I think you do yourselves no favors, you and Elethil. But if that is how you like it, then so be it. I'll not say a word more about that. But if you grow tired of making this your own affair and none other's and want an ear or a few words, however poor the advice may be, then they're yours for the asking. But you will have to ask. Well, for the advice at least. We are all a part of the brotherhood of complaints, after all!"  
  
Peloren smiled at that. "That is certainly true!" he acknowledged. "So... is that settled, then?"  
  
"So far as I am concerned," Aldan replied, and held out his hand. They shook on it, then Peloren sighed again, as he leaned to one side and peered through the door at the esquires already wolfing down lunch. "Well," he said, grimacing in unhappy anticipation, "let us see how I do with the bench this time."  
  
  
The answer to that was 'rather badly.' The hour of language instruction that followed was even more excruciating. Peloren suffered Andrahar's sharp admonitions not to fidget, and did as best he could to answer whenever a question came his way, but he resigned himself to a poor performance that day, distracted as he was. After an hour of writhing about in his seat, futilely seeking a comfortable position, and faced with the prospect of another hour of lecture and then an afternoon in the ring, pride bowed to pain and sent him to the Houses of Healing, where he endured the healers' humiliating examination of the affected area.   
  
"You are not the first person in all history to come to us with a bruised tailbone, Peloren. It happens fairly often, actually, especially to horsemen," the attending healer told him, apparently attempting to put him more at ease. "All it needs is one bad fall, even if not at speed. Good thing you had some padding from the gambeson!"  
  
In response, Peloren simply gritted his teeth and buried his face in his arms, feeling awkward and embarrassed with his trousers round his ankles, and more than just slightly uncomfortable as the healer gently prodded him.   
  
In the end, the man called another healer to confer over him, and Peloren endured another round of prodding before the two agreed that indeed, he had bruised his tailbone, and began issuing instructions for the next two weeks. This included giving him a round pillow with a hole in the middle to sit upon, and instructions for Master Ornendil and Master Théorwyn to excuse him from regular practice until such time as the healers deemed him able to participate without risk of further injury.   
  
"Here are some waterskins that you can take to the baths and fill with hot water. Lie on your stomach and apply them at the end of the day," one of the healers said. "Stand up whenever you can, drink at least twice as much as you would ordinarily, and come see us every other day in the evenings. If the pain has not greatly lessened in a week, then we will assume it is not simply a bruise, but that you have a fracture. But given what you have told us, I doubt that that is so—you should not have been able to finish the game or sit as long as you did if you had fractured the bone." Peloren sighed, resigned himself to the inevitable snickers, and accepted the waterskins, the notes, and the cushion, then departed, still with a flush to his face.  
  
Master Théorwyn, at least, took the healers' instructions without fuss, and to his credit did not laugh. "It happens to the best of us," he said, tucking the note into his scrip. "You can teach the pages to keep their equipage in condition, and I'll have Darmel handle the rest until you can safely return to the ring."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Peloren replied.   
  
The Horsemaster, perceiving his glum mood, smiled. "'Tis not so bad—better to attend to such things sooner than later, though not everyone learns that lesson. And you ought to be exempted from extra formation drills for the next week, at least."  
  
 _So I fear,_  Peloren thought, but said only: "I suppose I will be."  
  
  
And indeed, he was. The masters might encourage stoicism, but they also let the healers rule them, for such was only wisdom. Ornendil had him sit (or rather, stand) on the sidelines and watch and listen while he and Illian and Andrahar instructed the other esquires that evening.  
  
Afterwards, he waited until his classmates had gone ahead to the baths before he began making his pained way up to the castle, unwilling to be the object of envious, unfriendly looks. But he could not avoid them wholly—when he met Elethil later that evening to study, he was aware of a number of cool regards thrown in his direction.   
  
 _As if I arranged to be hurt!_  Peloren thought, frustrated. But there was nothing he could do about such foolish notions, and so he turned determinedly to his lessons. Beside him, Elethil jerked suddenly, shaking himself. Clearly, he had been on the edge of falling asleep. Peloren gave him a gentle nudge with his elbow.  
  
"We only have three weeks more before the first examination, Elya," he whispered.   
  
"And in three weeks, I'll sit for it," Elethil muttered.   
  
"And if you write or say something like that, you'll sit and fail," Peloren replied, tapping his pen beside a mangled sentence. "You're using an object genitive for a person there, and even so, it has the wrong ending—'Abandisjhan' starts with a full vowel. You cannot put 'ng' in front of a full vowel."   
  
Elethil's jaw clenched, and he rubbed at tired eyes, then sighed and folded his arms flat on the table, laying his head upon them. "It is just one mistake, Pel!" he complained under his breath.   
  
Peloren shifted uncomfortably, and not simply because his rear end ached. "You never used to make that sort of mistake, Elethil. Now you do it all the time. Andrahar is not going to be lenient, you know that!"  
  
Rather to his surprise, instead of answering, Elethil, after a moment, rose suddenly, and began gathering up his notes and books. "I cannot concentrate here," he muttered shortly. "I will see you tomorrow, Pel."   
  
With that, he departed. Peloren stared after him in surprise for several moments, then turned slowly back to his own work. But he did not begin again. Lifting his eyes from the pages before him, he glanced about the library's reading room, and watched as some esquires bowed their heads once more, while others stared openly at him. Celdir and Torlas had their heads together, Torlas whispering something to his friend, while Celdir gazed upon Peloren with a smile whose good humor was belied by the rather predatory gleam in his eyes. Clearly, the hounds sensed blood on the ground.  
  
Peloren stared back, feeling for once wrath bolster sinking spirits, and after a moment, he, too, rose, collected his belongings, including the accursed cushion, and left, making for the Fledglings' Wing. He deposited his books in his own quarters, then went down the hall to Elethil's room and knocked quietly. "Elya? It's me. May I come in?" he called softly.   
  
But there was no response from within, and although Peloren cursed softly in pain, he knelt down on the floor and peered under the door. No glow of light. If Elethil were within, he might possibly be asleep, in which case Peloren ought to leave him be, for his friend clearly needed the rest. On the other hand...   
  
 _He is not well._  The thought came blunt and certain to his mind. Esquires learned to live with a certain amount of exhaustion, for it was the nature of their training to test them to the limits of their endurance... and then demand more. But he had seen Elethil through such testing in the past, and this sort of moodiness, and the utter exhaustion that accompanied it—these were new and worrisome things, and Peloren could not but fret.  
  
 _He is always weary, even in the mornings. And he doesn't have much appetite lately, not even at breakfast. And although he's never been gregarious, like Imrahil, he's never shut me out like this, either._  His quiet friend had grown too quiet for his tastes, and as Peloren sought reasons for this change, he was guiltily aware that he had not spent as much time with him as he ought. It was inevitable, perhaps—with all the changes to his schedule, as Aldan had noted, it was harder to keep up with other esquires. He was not in Elethil's squad any longer, which made matters even worse.   
  
 _But I should try to spend time with him. Save the one time, he never had many letters from home to keep him, but I think he has not had any since just before Yule,_  he thought.  _And it is not as if either of us have friends enough to be able to lose each other._  But would Elethil even wish for his company, given his behavior lately?   
  
While he contemplated the unhappy possibility that Elethil might actually rebuff such efforts, the sound of boot heels on stone floors sounded, drawing nigh, and Peloren glanced up to see Imrahil striding purposefully toward him. Embarrassed to be caught on his hands and knees in an empty hall, Peloren did his best to scramble to his feet, though pain hampered that effort, and Imrahil ended up having to help him, steadying and supporting him with a hand under his arm.  
  
"My thanks," Peloren said, feeling his cheeks heat.  
  
"I thought you were not supposed to be bending like that," the Heir admonished lightly. Before Peloren could think of a suitable excuse, Imrahil continued, "What's the matter with Elethil?"  
  
"I... am not certain," Peloren admitted, with only a slight hesitation. "I was hoping he might tell me, but either he is not in, or he is asleep."  _Or he is ignoring me,_  his wretched inner voice added. He thrust that possibility aside, determined to wait upon clear evidence ere he let it lodge in his thoughts. He gazed at Imrahil a moment, then asked suddenly, "Where are your books? Were you not in the library?"  
  
"I left them with Ambor and Hengrist," Imrahil replied. "I will return for them soon enough. But I saw you go after Elethil, and I wanted a word with both of you anyway, so I followed."  
  
"What word?" Peloren asked, warily.   
  
"I think you can guess," the Heir replied, but then asked anyway: "Why haven't you two spoken to one of the sergeants? Or the masters?"  
  
"About what?" Peloren asked, immediately, habitually. Imrahil snorted.  
  
"About everything, of course. You two are stretched tight as a wire and have been ever since I got back. I have been listening to the talk around the Wing—it's clear enough the others have been after you. What I do not understand is why you have not told the sergeants about it. They must ask!" Imrahil replied. "And then there is all this nonsense, as happened in the baths this afternoon. It could have been anyone who took a fall, but a man would have to be blind and deaf not to notice the others blame Elethil for the loss. Which is ridiculous, of course, we were all to blame, but blame seems to gather around the two of you, and around Elethil more than you."  
  
"Imri," Peloren said, carefully, "you know how these things go. Of course they blame Elethil, and would blame me if they could—they are not happy to have us back among them."  
  
"Unhappy is one thing; but I have heard rumors about pranks and suchlike last term—mostly from the younger esquires who haven't found a place with Celdir or Faldion yet, or else who simply defer more to me than to them," Imrahil retorted, and waved an impatient hand over such politic courtesies. "It is all very vague even so, but we are all familiar with the way matters go among esquires, who have been here for a few years. If the new lads will talk about it so guardedly, then it is worse than I am told, even though I have seen no pranks or the like since Ornendil's ban on them this term. But clearly the others do not care for you, and treat your poorly. Why, then, has nothing been done?"  
  
"What would you have them do to make them respect two that they've no reason to respect?" Peloren said evenly, watching as Imrahil's eyes narrowed. "About some things, there is nothing to be done, Imrahil."  
  
"This cannot go on," he began after a moment, but Peloren cut him off.   
  
"Yes, it can. Because right now, there is  _nothing going on._  We would like to keep it that way, Elethil and I," he said firmly, and tried to ignore the irony that the matter at hand had seen him reconciled with Aldan, only perhaps to quarrel with Imrahil. "Please do not try to make something of this. Whatever you have heard, forget it, for friendship's sake!"  
  
"Strange you should say that, for though there are always many excuses between training and exhaustion, I fear I've not been as good a friend as I ought to be this term," Imrahil replied, and Peloren sighed. But he quickly answered:  
  
"Then make amends now, if you have not been: let this go."  
  
That Imrahil was not pleased with this response was evident, but at length, faced with intransigence, he sighed and spread his hands. "If you insist—"  
  
"I do," Peloren replied quickly, then, on a moment's inspiration, held out his hand. "Promise me you will say nothing?"  
  
"Pel," Imrahil protested, softly, but Peloren shook his head.  
  
"Promise me, Imrahil!"  
  
With a sigh and manifest reluctance, the Heir grasped his hand. "Very well. I shall say nothing. But promise  _me_  that you will seek an end to this 'nothing.'" Imrahil's grip tightened as he spoke.   
  
"I shall. I am," Peloren replied, and Imrahil, with a grunt, nodded and released his hand.   
  
"Good. Then why not come back with me, and get some work done? Although of course there is nothing and no one for you to retreat from in the library, I think you ought to return with me. Besides which, you cannot convince me that you could not use the help with Haradric!"  
  
"But you have to study for the Rohirric—"  
  
"I'll do well enough with it—I've always been good with languages, and besides, I've, ah, found someone who can help me with that a bit," Imrahil replied and smiled rather smugly.  
  
"Oh? Who?" Peloren asked. For there were not so very many Rohirrim in Dol Amroth; most of them ended up in the more northerly provinces if they left their native land.  
  
The smile broadened into a wicked grin. "Well, you see, 'Celebrindal' wasn't always so called—you have noticed her hair?"  
  
Peloren stared at him. "You go to  _The Fairweather_  to get help with  _Rohirric_?" he finally managed.  
  
"Among other things, admittedly. But I'm as tired as anyone  _during_  the week. I'm not up for much of anything then. But she may not be there much longer, you know, and I pay for her time, so it helps her, it pleases us both, and she gives plenty of incentive to improve by the next rest day..."   
  
Peloren rolled his eyes and gave his prince a cuff to the arm. "Unbelievable! Only you could get away with that, Imri!"   
  
"You might be surprised. Bhelan is very sweet, and very... accommodating... and has a lovely Ta'alsheen accent." Imrahil draped an arm about his shoulders and began drawing him back towards the library. "Come along, we'll talk more of this—in Haradric. I could introduce you to her if you liked..."  
  
  
  
In the end, despite a fairly prolonged, if halting, argument in Haradric, Peloren declined Imrahil's offer to introduce him to the enchanting Bhelan (at least for this week). But he did accept the offer to practice with Imrahil the next evening, and the Heir of course told him to bring Elethil if he could. Peloren, having promised to do so, went to bed, careful to lie on his stomach.   
  
And despite being injured, the next fortnight was busy. In the mornings, he joined his fellow esquires for arms practice for the first time in weeks. Ornendil left Andrahar to set the pace and course of the other esquires' training, while he worked with Peloren on some carefully supervised exercises with weights before sending the wounded esquire off to the archery ranges until lunch. For archery he could do without hurting himself. Lieutenant Mardron of the Ninth Company, who ruled the ranges of Dol Amroth, and had been briefed upon Peloren's situation, had him practicing with a very heavy draw to help him keep up his strength. His aim was another matter—Peloren had never been a very good shot under the best of circumstances, and these were certainly less than ideal.  
  
"You're not here to join our ranks, you're here to maintain your strength as much as you can, so you'll shoot with both hands equally," Mardron had told him. "Do your best. Just be certain to wait until the range is clear, and we'll try not to laugh too loudly." And credit to them, despite the predictable amusement of the regular members of the archery corps, no one laughed so hard he had not some helpful advice to give. Peloren was grateful for that, for he could leave the range at noon having felt he had done a decent day's work.  
  
He attended the lectures after lunch as usual, standing in the back with his slate, but then instead of going to the stables, he followed Master Illian to his office, where he and two other esquires who had suffered more serious injury than most during the battle of Badhon, spent the rest of the time before supper laboring under Illian's tender mercies. The Master of Records, having consulted with his colleagues and the healers, had decided that if they could not perform their regular duties, they could at least sit (or stand) additional tactics lessons with him.   
  
"While unmounted drills, like the one we just had, are necessary, and certainly will be of use for the shipboard duty we more and more often take, given the increasing boldness of the Corsairs, a knight needs to understand how horses change the order of battle on the ground," Master Illian said. "Let's look at the Rhûnic wars during Ondoher's reign, particularly the lack of cavalry available to oppose the opening strikes westward by Kygalac. I'll expect an analysis from each of you of each of these four battles by the end of next week. Let us begin with the battle on the plains north of Morannon…"  
  
Despite the extra work, which had to meet Master Illian's exacting demands for precision, Peloren owned himself relieved. All such additional or alternative lessons meant he spent most of his time away from the cool gazes of his resentful classmates. He hardly dared to think what Elethil must be enduring from them.  
  
Which was why, while Peloren dissected the sprawling, sometimes confused accounts of the battles he had been assigned, he kept an anxious eye on his friend in the evenings, who appeared to ignore his concern. This did not prevent him from falling asleep in the middle of their studies, though their nightly lessons with Imrahil helped.   
  
The Heir's considerable personal charm did temper some of Elethil's moodiness for a time, but indefatigable as even Imrahil was, he could not draw Elethil out for more than an hour or two at a time, and that only to a degree. Though Elethil did try to rise to Imrahil's continual efforts to coax a properly Haradric sentence out of his two friends, his speech remained faltering and only haphazardly grammatical under pressure. And as the rest days came and went, and the weeks with it, even Imrahil could not prevent him from sinking into despondency.  
  
"The examination is tomorrow," Elethil groaned, tossing his pen down on Imrahil's desk. The Heir had invited them to join him in his quarters that evening, where they could talk freely without disturbing others. Peloren, who had been given the bed to lie upon out of respect for his tailbone (though in truth, he suffered no real discomfort just from sitting anymore), glanced up from his notes. Imrahil, too, paused in his reading to stare, but Elethil did not notice, eyes closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
"You will manage," Peloren said, with as much confidence as he could muster, and then some.   
  
"How am I going to 'manage' when I keep tripping over these blended aspirants? I'll end up saying something offensive, and Andrahar will gut me where I stand!"  
  
"Andra knows the sorts of errors we weak-lunged Gondorians are prone to, Elethil," Imrahil said quietly. "He will not take any such personally."  
  
"He'll still gut me. I don't know this. I don't know  _any_  of it!"   
  
"Elya, you are not so bad as that! You have had two years of Haradric," Peloren reminded him.   
  
"And none of it makes any sense  _right now!_  Valar, I am so tired, I could—" Elethil stopped abruptly then, leaning his elbows on the desk, and he pressed his face into his hands, breathing in deeply.  
  
"What, Elya?" Imrahil asked quietly into the silence.  
  
"Nothing," Elethil replied, lowering his hands, and he rose, gathering up his notes and book. "I need to set this aside for a time. But you should continue—do not let me stop you. I will see you tomorrow, Pel, Imri." So saying, Elethil let himself out, leaving Imrahil and Peloren to exchange concerned looks.  
  
"Are you certain that you do not wish to tell me something of this 'nothing' that is not going on?" Imrahil asked after a moment.   
  
"He has not had much success with Haradric this year, and frankly, even you ought to worry about sitting an exam with Andrahar," Peloren replied, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "He's merciless."  
  
"Andra is rather... intense... when he sets his mind to something," Imrahil conceded. "But I am not convinced that that was only about Andrahar. And I thought you three had an understanding...?"  
  
"We did speak. I am not certain an understanding was part of that conversation," Peloren said softly.   
  
"What happened?" Imrahil asked, and Peloren, after considering and rejecting several replies, said simply:  
  
"Nothing." He closed his eyes, hearing Imrahil sigh, a frustrated, puzzled sound. Peloren swung his legs off the bed and sat up, then rose. "I think," he said, "that Elethil had the right of it, whatever else his reasoning—I cannot study further tonight. I doubt I shall improve between now and tomorrow afternoon anyway."  
  
"Perhaps not, but if you wished to stay and talk for a time..." Imrahil trailed off.  
  
"No, not tonight, though I do thank you for your help, Imri. I should go to bed if I do not stay up to practice. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a very long day," Peloren replied, wearily, and then bid the Heir good night.  
  
  
Later, he would have cause to wonder whether that comment had been spurred by more than ordinary foresight.  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
The next day began early, as most did. Yet despite anxiety over displaying his inadequacy as a speaker of Haradric, Peloren greeted it with anticipation. For as soon as he finished breakfast, he took himself off to the stables and then onto the field with his company for mounted drill, which Peloren was permitted to join in full for the first time since the unfortunate battle of Badhon Hill.   
  
In the past six days, he had been slowly returning to regular practice at arms, though Ornendil had been careful to pair him only with himself or one of his instructors.   
  
"We do not want you to risk another fall," the Armsmaster had told him. "And we do not wish to push you prematurely, so we will take matters slowly, on the healers' advice." Work had been slow and careful at first, but as pain receded, and he was able to move more and more freely, the pace had stepped up. Peloren had even sparred with Andrahar once, who, truth be told, had been no less careful with him than Master Ornendil. They had managed a civil discussion of technique, and then Andrahar had left him to another.   
  
But yesterday, during his regular visit to the Houses, Kendrion, having taken a look at Peloren, questioned him closely, and then seen him through some testing movements, had cleared him to return to limited mounted work. "No jousting or skirmishing," the healer had cautioned. "And although I am told you are a wonder at it, stay away from the quintain, too. But you should be able to tilt. Only respect any pain you may feel, and stop when you begin to hurt."  
  
"Yes, sir," Peloren had promised eagerly, anxious to rejoin the ranks. And he was certainly pleased this morning that he felt no pain as he put Lightfall through his paces. Still, his reprieve from the field had dulled his edge somewhat, and he found himself more breathless than he would have liked, and his pride a bit bruised for his poorer performance.   
  
"You'll be fine, lad," Tarondor assured him. "You were not off the field that long, and you are too good a horseman not to come back quickly. Now, back into line, let us try it again!"  
  
By noon, Peloren was beginning to believe Tarondor might be right, which was an encouraging thought, and so one much needed as he joined Imrahil, Aldan, Teilin, Ambor, and Elethil for lunch. Everyone was worrying about the impending examinations, for though such trials were not viewed in the same light as trials of arms, they could nonetheless interfere with the more important martial trials. No one wished to spend extra time with Illian and his instructors that might have gone to arms practice.   
  
Talk at table was muted, therefore, and mostly restricted to discussions of grammar or vocabulary, little groups of esquires clustering together based on who studied which languages. Aldan and Teilin were reviewing their Sindarin. Teilin actually had his slate, with minutely traced notes crowded upon it, settled in his lap so he could read and eat at the same time, and consequently contributed little to any conversation. Ambor was rehearsing his Rohirric. And Imrahil questioned Peloren in Haradric, and tried to draw Elethil out as well. For his part, Elethil answered as laconically as he could, seeming quite subdued.  
  
Eventually, the bells tolled one, and the esquires rose and began to file out to their different lecture halls. "Ready?" Peloren asked when they had reached theirs, and Elethil shook his head.  
  
"Not at all," he replied, grimly, but nonetheless entered and took his seat.   
  
Rather to the esquires' surprise, it was not Andrahar who awaited them, but Master Harthil. "Sit down," the instructor ordered, and they obeyed, hastening to get ink and pens and the allotted three sheets of paper out and ready. "You will have one hour to complete this, so do not dally." And he began dictating a question to them, while the esquires hurriedly copied it down.  
  
The first part of the examination was not so bad—composition was a familiar task from years past, and at least allowed one the time to think about the question and how one might answer it, and then go back and correct one's mistakes. Peloren would never gain recognition for his style or eloquence, but it was not too repetitive and the script acceptably neat, and he used up his three allotted sheets with time to spare.   
  
It was the spoken portion of the test that was the true challenge. At the end of the written examination, Harthil collected their efforts and held up a sheet of paper with their names written upon it. "Each of you has a quarter of an hour with me," he announced. "I expect to see you here with the bells, not after them. Be certain you are on time."  
  
The esquires then gathered about the sheet laid upon a table, seeking their names. Peloren's name was ever near the head of any roster, so he was not much surprised to see that he had an early interview—the third man, right after Torlas. Elethil, he noted, was nearly the last name on the list.  
  
"That gives you some time," Peloren murmured as he and Elethil left, and Peloren settled himself outside the door to the hall. There seemed little point in leaving only to return again in half an hour. "You could study."  
  
"I know. I would almost rather be in your place, though," Elethil said heavily. But he hefted his books and said, "I'll be in the library, then."  
  
"At least it is not Andrahar we have to face," Peloren said, by way of consolation, and Elethil bit his lip, face darkening unexpectedly.   
  
"Why do you think that is?" he asked.  
  
Peloren shrugged. "Mayhap Andrahar has some other duty that interfered. Or mayhap it is because he still reports to Master Harthil. Master Harthil has been by often enough to observe us all term, after all."  
  
"I suppose." Elethil sounded skeptical of these possibilities, but then he dismissed such speculative inquiry with a wave of his hand. "I ought to go and take advantage of the time I have. I shall see you later, Pel."  
  
"I'll come find you when you're done. Aldan, Imrahil and I are going to the  _Harp and Sails_  afterward. You should come with us," he invited.   
  
"I'll think on it," Elethil replied non-commitally, then waved and made his way off towards the library, managing a civil enough nod for Torlas, who was also waiting about, leaning a shoulder against the wall. Torlas gave Peloren a distemperate look, then steadfastly ignored him. For his part, Peloren was content not to challenge that silence. Nevertheless, he was not grieved when the door opened and Torlas was called within, though that brought him nearer his own interview.   
  
Some little time later, Torlas emerged, a thoughtful look upon his face. He gave Peloren a measuring stare, as if he were attempting to gauge somewhat. Peloren frowned at him, and despite his lack of enthusiasm for what was to come, hastily darted within the room and shut the door. Master Harthil glanced up from making a few notes on a sheet of paper.   
  
"Ah. Sit down, Peloren," he said, in Haradric, of course. Peloren obeyed, taking a seat opposite the man. The thin-faced scholar gazed intently upon him a moment, then said, "I hear that you have found this term to be challenging. Tell me about it."  
  
 _'Challenging.'_  Peloren felt his heart beat swifter and his palms felt suddenly sweaty. Was this a question asked of all esquires, or was Harthil fishing under the guise of testing his competence in a foreign tongue? He knew Harthil had questioned Elethil before, just before the end of the last term, and Elethil, though exhausted, had been alert enough to say a lot of careful nothing.   
  
 _So do you the same,_  he told himself, and, taking another moment to organize his thoughts, replied, in his best accent: "I have found the pages to be challenging. It is hard to know how to teach them certain things because it is hard to remember when I did not know them, sir." Which was a dull sentence, and repetitively formed, but at least it was correct.  
  
Harthil made a soft noise in his throat. "Please continue. What lessons do you find the most difficult to convey?"   
  
So Peloren launched into a list of his duties and the various problems he had encountered as he struggled to discharge his duty to the pages, and so also to Master Théorwyn. Harthil nodded in the right places, asked a few questions, and once or twice required him to clarify something in such a way that Peloren realized he had gone beyond the bounds of his limited speaking ability and floundered into ambiguity or worse. Peloren was just beginning to relax, and to think that perhaps Harthil had no ulterior motive behind his original question when the scholar asked:  
  
"You say that you have struggled to do your duty by Master Théorwyn, who entrusted you with the instruction of the pages. What of your duty by Andrahar? Or his by you? How have you found him as a teacher?"  
  
Peloren froze. Esquires were almost  _never_  asked to comment upon their superiors' performance. It simply was not done. After all, whatever talk floated about campfires and barracks in an army, at the end of the day, there were those who commanded and those who obeyed, and esquires, just as any unranked knight, were bound to obey. Not for them to judge those set over them.   
  
And though Andrahar held no official rank that would amount to anything on the battlefield or in a regular company, his place as Ornendil's assistant gave him authority over the esquires, and in just the field into which Harthil now inquired. Peloren could not but notice that the pen was once more in Harthil's hand, and suddenly, Torlas' look in the hall made sense.   
  
 _Is he asking all of us about Andrahar?_  Peloren wondered, and wondered, too, whether that meant someone were displeased with the Southron's performance. Had there been complaints? Some lapse the masters had noticed? Or was it a test of some sort, an effort to try to glean from the esquires some sense of how things went between them and their unusual instructor, when none of them could fall back upon any native facility for subterfuge, Haradric hampering them from any plays that might disguise matters effectively?   
  
 _And what should **I**  say in any case?_ What should he say of one whom he had hated enough two years ago to violate every oath laid upon esquires? What should anyone say who had done such a thing to one of his fellows?  _I do not know._  That was honesty, and yet it made something in him cringe, and he felt a flutter of shame that he had as yet nothing to say.  
  
But these were things he would not share with Master Harthil, save under severe duress.  _And he has not asked after for them anyway,_  Peloren reminded himself.  _He has asked after Andrahar as a teacher. What should I say, there?_  There was surely plenty Peloren might have of Andrahar in that regard, yet mindful of his oath, he dared not give his tongue a free reign. If he owed his fellow esquires perfect courtesy in the face of insult and worse, how much more did he owe it to one set over him! And this was Andrahar, whose bad history with Peloren was by no means secret—would even a legitimate complaint be seen as aught more than the continuation of their quarrel?  
  
"I hope," he replied at last, speaking slowly and as carefully as he knew how, "that Sir Andrahar has found me... honorable... in my duty towards him. I find languages difficult, however, so perhaps he may be displeased."  _Valar, that was awkward!_  But he dared not say more than was literally true.  
  
"I see. And how has he responded to your troubles with the language?"   
  
"He speaks very well. He tries to show us how we ought to speak."   
  
"And the subjects he chooses? You find them appropriate?"  
  
 _Appropriate?_  Peloren cast his mind back over the past several weeks and tried to think of anything that had caught his attention. The  _Tes Khuvantin_  were excruciatingly dull and difficult, and much of Andrahar's time was spent trying to explain the matter (or getting the esquires to explain the matter) in a more straightforward fashion, and then correcting the errors that arose from his pupils' efforts to handle such lengthy, complex sentences. He had told them a little about Umbar and Bakshir that Peloren recalled, but mostly things that pertained to this or that  _khan_  or captain or war.   
  
"He tells us about the history we read," Peloren said after a moment. "It helps to hear it said more simply."  
  
"I see," Master Harthil replied, and scribbled something indecipherable upon his sheet of paper. "And he has not asked anything of you that seemed beyond the reach of either history or language?"  
  
"I... no, sir, I do not believe so, sir. Although," Peloren said, and risked the admission, "I am not certain that I understand the question."  
  
"Do you not?" Harthil raised a brow, but then he waved a hand, seeming to dismiss the whole inquiry. "It was perhaps badly phrased. But thank you, Peloren, you may go now."  
  
Peloren rose, bowed, and made his way out, feeling quite confused and more than a little suspicious.  _What was that about?_  he wondered, as he emerged into the hall and held the door for the next victim. The whole episode had been decidedly odd and uncomfortable, and Peloren still was not sure what Harthil had been driving at, or what he could have wanted or expected from such a set of questions. Not that Peloren felt any liking for Andrahar, but he found himself uneasily in sympathy with him, for all that Andrahar might well know nothing of Harthil's inquiries.   
  
 _When it comes time for them to sit an exam, will Master Théorwyn ask the pages about me, then?_  he wondered. Was this usual for new assistants and instructors? Peloren did not think so, for he could not remember being asked to give any sort of opinion about Evarin or Darmel or any of the Armsmaster's assistants or the instructors whom Master Illian oversaw.   
  
Disturbed, he sought out Elethil, intending to warn him, but his friend, despite his words, was not in the library. Nor did he answer Peloren's knock upon his door, and having no idea where he might have gone, Peloren decided to return to the stables. He needed something to shake the fog from his head and calm him down, and a ride with Lightfall and perhaps another few rounds of the tilting yard would help settle him. He would try to catch Elethil on his way to the exam, and if he missed him, at least he would wait and ask him afterwards how it had gone.   
  
Lightfall seemed glad to see him again, though they had worked earlier in the day. The gelding was apparently restless as his master was, and for the next little while at least, Peloren managed to banish his concerns over the examination, focused as he was on collecting rings as Lightfall darted through the course. By the time the bells struck two, alerting him to the need to return if he was to try to speak with Elethil before his turn with Master Harthil, he was just a little sore, the result of a combination of time off and injury, but it truly was a minor discomfort and Peloren paid it no heed as he hastily stabled and brushed Lightfall down.   
  
He dashed back up to the keep, bypassing the library and aiming straight for the lecture hall. A rather anxious esquire was pacing before Harthil's room and looked up in surprise at his arrival. Peloren cursed inwardly.  
  
"Uilovar," he asked, "have you seen Elethil?"  
  
"Aye," Uilovar replied, and gestured to the closed door. "We were the last two. Master Harthil has him before me, though." Peloren bit his lip. "Why? Is something the matter?" Uilovar gave him a close, searching look.  
  
"I do not know," Peloren replied honestly. And since Uilovar was now regarding him with queer suspicion, he said, by way of partial explanation: "You may hear some odd questions. Just... take them in stride. That is all I wished to say."  
  
Uilovar grunted and shrugged. "It's all odd to me," he murmured and lapsed back into silence, seeming absorbed in his own thoughts. But now Uilovar stood leaning against the wall while Peloren took his place and paced before the door, impatiently awaiting his friend.   
  
After what seemed an eternity, the door finally did open, and Elethil emerged, looking troubled and upset. Uilovar breathed in deep, managed what might have been a sympathetic nod for Elethil, and went to take his turn before Harthil. Peloren pounced upon his friend.  
  
"What happened? Are you all right?" Peloren demanded.  
  
"Just wait a moment," Elethil growled in response, leaning back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Peloren bit his lip, but he did not press his friend, unwilling to add to his unhappiness. For some time, they stood there in silence, Elethil with his eyes downcast and face flushed, Peloren anxiously waiting, trying not to fidget as the minutes crawled by.  
  
But at length, Elethil shook his head, and he shoved himself away from the wall. "Let us go," he muttered, voice taut.  
  
"Elya? How did it go?"  
  
"I don't know," came the curt response.  
  
"What happened in there?" Peloren pressed, as the two of them began moving down the hallway.   
  
"I have no idea what happened."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Elethil gave an exasperated sigh. "Just that! I don't know what happened! I don't know what he wanted—half the questions were about some obscure Khandian intervention in some Bakshir sect we barely talked about two weeks ago, the other half were about Andrahar!" Elethil fumed. "I don't remember half of the things about Khand—I thought we were dealing with Harad. And as for Andrahar... what was I supposed to say?"  
  
"So he asked you, too," Peloren murmured, wondering what this meant. Elethil, however, barely registered his words, eyes fixed on the floor as he walked, and continued:   
  
"Even if I thought any of the masters wanted to hear from me about him, how should I have answered? I try not to think of him when I can avoid it, and when I do... I suppose Master Harthil might have given some marks for vocabulary if I told him I thought Andrahar was  _na khai'ivar chakh ve—_ "  
  
" _Elethil!_ " Peloren hissed in horror, but it was too late. Elethil glanced up at him, then followed Peloren's rather stricken gaze to the object of his horror, and all the color drained from his face.  
  
Before them stood a dark-clad form that hovered like a shadow on the wall. Andrahar had just come about the corner they were approaching and come to a halt there. Narrowed dark eyes were fixed upon them, and although he bore no weapons that they could see, the hands clenched at his sides were white at the knuckles. Clearly, he had heard Elethil, and if ever Peloren had wondered what fury looked like, he need wonder no more for it had a face now. Black eyes flashed dangerously as the Southron deliberately folded his hands behind his back and stalked forward, right up to Elethil, who quailed, holding up his own hands as if to try to gain distance enough for an explanation.   
  
Andrahar, however, was having none of it. " _One_  word, Elethil, and you shall regret it," he said flatly, which effectively silenced him. "So I am a fatherless gelded pig, am I? Were those your words?"  
  
There was absolutely no way to answer that—to say 'no' was to lie, to say 'yes' was an insult, and there was no way to remain silent.  _And the moment he says a single word..._  Peloren felt his heart sink. Elethil had the look of a trapped animal; his lips parted, but in the end, he did not speak. He simply nodded miserably.   
  
In the blink of an eye, Andrahar had him up against the wall, and Elethil gasped as a stiff forearm pinned him there. For all that Elethil was the taller of them, there was no question who would win this fight should it come to that, and for a queasy moment, Peloren feared it might well end that way. But even as the hard-won habits of his training spurred him to follow, intending to intervene, Andrahar glanced sharply left at him and snapped:  
  
"Stay back, Peloren!" And such was his tone that Peloren obeyed without thinking, even as Andrahar turned back to the esquire he had braced up against the wall.  
  
"So you've time to learn to denigrate but  _not_  to learn to say one proper, civil sentence, is that it?" he demanded harshly, face dark with anger. His fingers fisted in the front of Elethil's tunic, as he lowered his voice to snarl, "If you have aught to say to me, then say it in your own tongue, Elethil—do not pollute mine by putting its words in your mouth to insult  _me_! Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes, sir!" Elethil managed, and for his trouble got another stiff forearm to the chest, pinning him forcibly to the wall.  
  
"Then see that you learn next week's lessons so well as your curses! And I warn you," Andrahar's voice grew flatter yet, "play false to me again,  _esquire_ , and I will have you in front of the Armsmaster for insolence and deceit!" With that, and a disgusted growl, Andrahar stepped back, gave each of them an absolutely withering glare, then turned and strode quickly away.  
  
Elethil, meanwhile, slid down the wall to sit with his knees pulled up to his chest and his head bowed over them, seeming to collapse in on himself. Shaken, but less so than his friend, Peloren approached and knelt before him, laying a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "Elya?"   
  
A muffled oath reached him, and then Elethil looked up, his face a rictus of too many sorts of pain for Peloren to bear. He looked away, then got an arm under Elethil's shoulders and pulled him to his feet. "Come on," he murmured; "Let us go."   
  
Intent as he was upon getting Elethil to walk with him, he did not notice Uilovar staring after them. Having been dismissed by Harthil after a swift interview, Uilovar had emerged into the hall to find a close-faced Andrahar waiting to enter, whose chilly demeanor had inspired him to step aside quickly. Doing so had put him in the corridor just in time to see Peloren help Elethil up from the floor. Uilovar stared at them a moment, then glanced right at the ominously shut door, ere he decided that whatever was afoot, he did not want to be a part of it. Esquires who did not learn when to put their heads down generally had them hewn off and handed messily back to them by irate sergeants and officers, and this seemed the moment for that better part of valor.  
  
But of course, while survival was certainly an art the esquires learned, it was not the final law of fraternity. No scandal keeps forever, and soon enough, the rumors would begin... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my knowledge, the name of the commander of the Easterling confederacy known as the Wainriders is never given in Tolkien's corpus.
> 
> On tailbones: Admittedly possibly too short a recovery period for poor Peloren, but I based my timeline off of this thread, since it seemed that every other site was either giving information about extreme, chronic pain that lasted for years or months, or else was fairly vague on recovery times. I also found University of Illinois Medical Center's website to be helpful.


	7. Tribulations

Some hours later, in a small, lamp-lit room:  
  
 _ **Task: Explain the military significance of the**_ **Khaltu'un _regency for Umbar, citing the accounts of M'halekh, Torhanakhat, and Ul-sahan the Ta'alsheenite. Comment on the latter's use of the middle voice to achieve his rhetorical aims._** _  
  
  
The Khaltu'un regency arisen after the assassination of the Khadhar in order to leaving his infant heir and three illegitimate sons…_  
  
Andrahar paused in his reading, turning the pen in his hands, and he gave the offending essay before him a look of utter disgust. He did not dare flip the pages over to discover who had written it, for fear that the knowledge might rouse an insurmountable prejudice in him against the writer. With three glaring errors in the opening two clauses, the author had already earned his ire and the thought of having to read the rest inspired a strange sort of dread-imbued lethargy, as if his mind sought escape in oblivion.   
  
 _Be reasonable!_  he rebuked himself, as he shook himself and forced his attention back to the page.  _'Tis but a few slips of paper. What matters it if some esquire cannot distinguish a participle from the imperfect? Or mistakenly uses an instrumental case?_    
  
No doubt it mattered little in the end, and that was the truly galling part that stuck in his craw—that it mattered so uniformly little, that what was so near him, so much in him, should be worth so little.  _No more than a few curses,_  he thought, savagely. That knowledge had driven him to the salle, with but a brief detour to his chambers to toss the compositions Master Harthil had given him upon his desk. Once in the salle, he had spent a great deal of long pent up fury on a pair of hapless pells, 'til one of the sandbags had actually ruptured.  
  
For he had not imagined, when he had accepted his duties, that the teaching of his own tongue should come to be so bitter a thing to him. He had thought, if anything, that sword-work would be more frustrating, for lives were at stake there, and surely he did not wish to bear the blame for a needless death. And he did worry about that, but nevertheless, failure in the salle or on the field somehow did not touch him so closely as a poorly formed sentence.   
  
For in the end, no one disagreed that it was of the utmost importance that sword-play be properly learned, whereas so far as he could tell, he might be the only one to whom it mattered that proper Haradric be respected. Not even Master Harthil seemed to care, for all his fluency, or how else was it possible that the esquires could be so painfully bad after two years with him?   
  
 _How could they be otherwise?_  Andrahar wondered caustically. Of course they were terrible! They read  _Tes Khuvantin_ ; they had learned some of the duller histories in the library to judge by their references. And most inexcusably of all, they read awful poetry, as he had had the misfortune to discover when he had asked them to recite anything they knew of Haradric verse. Peloren had given him some doggerel about pomegranates that had been so ridiculously sentimental and badly paced, Andrahar had actually found the volume he claimed it had come from and read through it in a fit of morbid curiosity.   
  
But there was nothing he could do to correct any of that. Harthil had taken him to task after that lesson. "There are certain things the esquires must learn, and that they have, for the most part. As for the rest, keep to what I have given you. Leave the poetry aside, 'tis a distraction," he had ordered flatly.  
  
 _A distraction from what?_  Andrahar had wondered at the time, though he had of course obeyed, if not happily. But slowly, over the course of the term, he had come to realize something: Harthil might be fluent, and he might be knowledgeable, and certainly none could doubt his dedication to Gondor; but fundamentally, he did not care for the language and he deeply mistrusted its people, and that colored all his teaching, for all he also clearly cared for the esquires.   
  
And he cared very much that they not fall prey to fascination. Thus there was nothing of poetry in his lectures, for that was a distraction from the central fact: the Haradrim were the enemy, and for very good reason. Their service to the Dark Lord of course came first, but corruption bred in the very language they spoke—thus fluency must be carefully acquired. So Andrahar guessed, for Harthil had observed nearly every lecture, and Andrahar could not help but feel that he was less concerned that the esquires learn well from him than that they not hear anything that might tempt them to think well or better of the language that had a word for such abominable things as "shield-mates."   
  
Either Harthil had succeeded better than he knew in inculcating his dislike, or else he had had no need to worry in the first place: if Elethil were any measure of the esquires' view of the matter, Haradric was good for little, save insults. Andrahar supposed he might go to Illian for help, but he doubted that the Master of Records had meant to suggest he would entertain so drastic a proposition as "Find a new instructor in Haradric!" Nor was there any way to validate his sense of being set up to fail as an instructor with the impossible works Harthil was assigning. The former seemed far too close to complaining of one set over him, and the latter was likely to garner more concern for his own perceptions than investigation into Harthil's motivations. And so tonight, rather than seek out Illian, he had instead pummeled one of the sandbags 'til it split a seam near the bottom, sending sand everywhere.  
  
Cleaning up after that mishap had taken some time, and by then, the numbness that came of prolonged, jarring exertion had worn off somewhat, and he could feel the ache of bruises forming along forearms and shins, and his hands were a bit stiff, too. He had also missed supper, but feeling in no mood for company, had counted that a boon.   
  
Once he had washed up, he had returned to his room and settled at his desk, determined to be done with the thankless task of evaluating his students' efforts before dawn. After all, if it meant so little to them to learn anything of his native tongue, then he saw no reason why he ought to spend overmuch time on their poor work.  
  
Unfortunately, if the esquires, and even their instructor, rated Haradric as less important than other matters, he could not so easily mime their disregard. Tortured prose cried out for correction, but also numbed thought as effectively as beating his head against a pell, drawing out the unhappy process of evaluation. No doubt that explained how he had managed to read the same sentence three times without understanding a word of it. That, and the fact that it was missing a verb and a few key words were in the wrong cases.   
  
With a growl, he tossed the pen aside and straightened in his chair. Laying his hands upon his knees, he drew a deep breath and let it out, seeking to empty his mind, as before a sparring match.  _I **will**  finish this chore tonight,_ he thought, silently reiterating his vow.  _Not for you to make more of this than they do._  He drew another breath, held it a moment, let it out, repeating his aim to himself.  _If 'tis naught to them, then let it be naught to you. Be still and focus…_  
  
Alas, it was not to be. A knock sounded on his door just then, jolting him out of that fragile calm, and the curse escaped his lips before he could stop it. The knock repeated, and even as he sighed and rose to answer it, his unexpected visitor called to him.   
  
"Andra? It's Imri. Are you in?" the Heir asked, urgently.  
  
Frowning, for he had expected Imrahil would be out with the other esquires tonight, drowning their fears in ale or else drinking to their successes, Andrahar opened the door. "Imrahil? What brings you?" he asked.  
  
"You, frankly," Imrahil replied. Then, glancing quickly over his shoulder, he lowered his voice to ask: "May I come in? This is not something for the hallway."  
  
Andrahar's frown deepened at that, but he did step quickly aside. "What matter?" he demanded, when the Heir had slipped within, and he had closed the door firmly behind him. "Shouldn't you be off with the others?"  
  
Imrahil sighed and lifted steepled hands to his face, scrutinizing Andrahar over the tips of his fingers a long moment. Finally: "Even as you told me once, my tale can wait, for I need to ask you something. You will not like it, but I must have an answer from you, Andra. What just happened between you and Elethil and Peloren?"  
  
The Heir was right: Andrahar did not at all care for this question, feeling anger flare swiftly. It took him a moment to master it sufficiently to ask in turn, "What did they tell you?"  
  
Somewhat to his surprise, however, Imrahil shook his head sharply. "No," he replied. "I need your answer. What happened?"   
  
Andrahar did not immediately reply, unwilling to involve Imrahil in this unpleasant affair, and not only out of a stoic habit of privacy. For however little might separate him from the esquires in terms of age and experience, still, he felt he should not speak of them to one of their peers, that such would be… inappropriate… of him. Alas, Imrahil's friendship made it hard to refuse such discussions entirely, and especially where Peloren and Elethil were concerned, Andrahar felt thoroughly conflicted, desire to speak warring with the sense that there, especially, he must remain silent.   
  
But clearly the other would not leave without a response, and so, reluctantly, he replied, "I happened upon them in the hall. There were some… ill-considered words aired carelessly, and perhaps I was more intemperate in my response than—"  
  
"Andra," Imrahil interrupted him, brow knitting with puzzlement and concern, "what are you doing?"  
  
"I am telling you what happened."  
  
"No, you're not," the Heir replied. "You are talking around it, which is hardly like you, and that worries me."  
  
"It is not your concern—" Andrahar began, only to be interrupted again.  
  
"So I am told—repeatedly!" Imrahil said, somewhat heatedly. "I must say, I am beginning to weary of that excuse!"  
  
"It is not an excuse, it is the truth!" Andrahar shot back.   
  
"What is true is that I have friends who seem bent on making each other miserable, and it does not seem to occur to them that this might be worrisome for those who care for them!"  
  
"This is not about  _you_ , Imri!"  
  
"No, it is not," his friend agreed, tone still sharp. "It is about what happened between you and Elethil and Peloren this evening."  
  
"Then go back and ask them to explain it, for I will not," Andrahar declared flatly, and turned away. Behind him, Imrahil sighed.   
  
He did not, however, leave, and after a few moments, the Heir recounted slowly, "You were in the hall, you said. And so were they. And the three of you had words. One or both of them foolishly said something probably insulting… perhaps not intentionally? And you were then… intemperate… when replying to them. What does that mean, 'intemperate'?"  
  
"What do you think that it means?"  
  
"I do not know! Andra," Imrahil's voice took on a bit of a desperate tone, "you were the one who told me before term began that you were not certain whether you wished them to fear you or not. Now I find that they are terrified of you, Elethil most of all, and none of you will speak plainly about  _anything_  that has to do with the three of you. How should I judge what 'intemperate' means, given all that?"  
  
It was an all too reasonable question, put in that light, which was more than somewhat unsettling. Nevertheless, something in it struck him uncomfortably wrong.  _Very_  uncomfortably wrong, as, unbidden, the memory of how Imrahil's hand had felt upon his flesh two years ago returned with such vivid force he fancied he could almost feel it again.  _I would do anything… absolutely anything at all._    
  
"To be offered anything is to be thought to balk at nothing," Andrahar's father had warned him, again and again. "There is no virtue without limit."  
  
A shiver went up his spine then and he turned back abruptly, gazing at Imrahil through narrowed eyes. "My turn," he announced, with no preamble. "What are you afraid of, Imrahil, that you feel a need to ask me such a question?"  
  
"I am worried what passed between you—"  
  
"No," Andrahar interrupted, voice hardening as that splinter of insight worked its way free finally. "You are worried I may have  _done_  something to them, or to Elethil." And when Imrahil made no reply, he continued, feeling his certainty wax, and with it, his outrage: "That is it, is it not? What do you imagine? That I struck him? That I hurt him somehow or threatened to? That I overstepped the bounds between an instructor and a student?"  
  
"It is just that I am concerned—"   
  
"Gondor may be a land of loose-living out-castes, Imrahil, but  _I am not one such!_ "   
  
At that, Imrahil's eyes went wide, and he paled a bit. Unlike so many of Andrahar's students, Adrahil's son was well-schooled in Haradric and the ways of those who spoke it. And so he knew perfectly well that in a world that made every effort to define a place for every man, and to hold every man relentlessly to his place, where The Rules governed all congress, whether between castes or within one, whether it took place in the great halls, in the streets, or between the sheets, and where there could be no greater sin than to transgress them—in such a world,  _mahar-din_ —'out-caste'—was arguably the worst insult the Haradric language furnished its children with, lower even than 'slave,' and certainly the most horrific of realities that could be visited upon one.   
  
And Imrahil knew also that Andrahar, of all people, had good cause to know, with awful precision, the depth of that horror, having become just that when he had escaped bondage to land upon the streets, where any man might have slain him and owed nothing to anyone for his life, not even recompense to a master for the loss of his service. For what worth had an out-caste, who would not find his dignity in his place, but who might do any despicable thing, in violation of all right order?  
  
The Heir was quick, therefore, to retreat, protesting: "Andra, I never thought you were!"  
  
"But that is where you put me with your questions nonetheless," Andrahar snapped. "I suppose I should be glad 'tis questions only—it might be someone's fists again. Or Harthil's insinuations. Or mayhap an open hand where it does not belong?"  
  
Imrahil winced, but he also shook his head. "That is not fair," he said softly.  
  
"No, 'tis not fair. Go drink a toast to the world's injustice—I have work to do," Andrahar retorted caustically. Imrahil hesitated, but only for a moment, before he bowed his head and left quietly, leaving an ugly sort of silence in his place. Andrahar remained where he was a little while, but then slowly returned to his chair and took up the pen again.   
  
Some hours more he worked at whittling away the pile of papers before him, pausing only to add a little more oil to the lamp towards the end. Lines of neatly marked corrections found their way onto the pages, and this time, the errors themselves did not upset him. They were simply dealt with and set aside for the next batch. Nothing focused the mind like a need for distraction from other and worse troubles, after all.  
  
When he had finished with all of them, he set them all in order, leaving the latest few spread out over his desk so the ink would dry properly, and he made his way to bed. But though it had been a long day, longer, even, than was his wont, Andrahar could not sleep immediately. He lay awake, staring into the darkness of his chambers, wondering what he would do with the complaint he had made Imrahil as he reflected on his time in Gondor.  
  
His first year in Dol Amroth had been fearful, though many might have missed that, seeing only a slavish devotion in him that had been quick to demand the duties, however lowly, he saw as his. For despite a gift for tongues that had considerably eased the shock of life in a foreign land, Dol Amroth had been a shock nonetheless. Though hardly a provincial rustic, to be amazed and confused by court life and its amenities, he had felt out of place and, in a way, more vulnerable than he had on the streets of Hurrhabi, which were at least familiar to him.   
  
Imrahil had been the one star in his sky to guide him then, his oath to the young prince the one thing he could be certain of. For he had meant every word he had said when he had dared to swear himself to Imrahil—in defiance of all right thinking and propriety, as he had ever been taught. Out of gratitude for his life, Andrahar had sworn away what little and (to Haradric ways of thinking) worthless freedom he had had. Out of his own sense of honor, and later (not much later) out of love, he had done all he could, injured or not, to render his debts in full in what seemed to him the proper manner.  
  
But beneath all such fine feeling, he had been driven also by fear—fear that he might lose the one place he possessed and find himself adrift in a world that frankly did not seem much to want him in it. That fear had been slow to ebb, despite the fact that it had swiftly become apparent that Imrahil had absolutely no intention of casting him off. Not even after the uncomfortable, terrifying exercise in honesty, when Andrahar had had to confess himself a lover of men by nature, not simply by force of circumstances, to his oath-bonded lord. Imrahil's easy acceptance of him in that matter, flying as it did in the face of all right custom in Gondor, had been a sort of final proof that there had been no need to fear, so long as the Heir lived.  
  
Yet fear had remained, though buried deeply enough that even he had overlooked it. Intent upon his place as Imrahil's bondsman, confident in Imrahil's favor at least, more familiar at length with Dol Amroth and its ways, and with the chance to be what he had always hoped to become—an armsman in a lord's retinue—his world had not had room enough for such fear. He had exiled it, along with overmuch concern for the hostility of other esquires, assuming that ferocity at need and a steadfast refusal to be goaded would serve him, as it had in Umbar's back alleys.   
  
Perhaps he should have realized that with the streets so close, he had not gone very far from the fear they bred in him. But then again, he  _was_  in Gondor, which was quite strange enough to make him feel every league of distance between Dol Amroth and Umbar. And then there was Imrahil—beautiful, bold, and brilliant enough to convince him there was nothing in the only half-heeded shadow that lay uneasily upon his heart. Peloren and Elethil had helped Valyon teach him that the shade was thicker than he had thought, and though he could not complain of Adrahil's treatment of him, or of Aerandir's, or of Thorongil's, or of Barcalan's, or even of the masters', their good will was apparently not enough to banish anxiety, nor to prevent Harad from once again coming unexpectedly home to him in the worst ways.  
  
Andrahar sighed softly. He should have seen it coming. But just as Imrahil had eclipsed Valyon and the others, he had allowed the strangeness of his new home to blind him to the points where Gondor and Harad closed ranks against him. In the absence of clear castes and rules in Gondor, in the absence of even a word that matched the vileness of  _mahar-din_ , to say nothing of lacking people to inhabit that ugly condition, it was harder for one accustomed to the Haradric genius for order to recognize what would have been starkly apparent in Harad. Everything was so inconsistent here—some treated him well, others were not opposed to him at least, and then of course there were the rest, but there was no telling how things might go with those either above or beneath him, and he was uncertain still whether he had peers, precisely. All men might have a place in Gondor, but the boundaries of that place seemed… fluid. Untrustworthy. Permissive of all manner of disorderly familiarities that would scandalize a well-bred lord in Harad.  
  
But he had grown used to that, or so he had thought, and within the bounds he had made for himself, others did not trouble him. And so Imrahil's artless inquiry tonight had caught him by surprise, and his sense of betrayal, the feeling of gross upheaval in his narrow world, had shaken his blinders loose, given him a new look at his frustrations and discomfort since returning to Dol Amroth. Harthil's blatant, bigoted mistrust; his own irritation with certain compliments that on the face of things should have bothered him not at all; the court gossip; the polite but distant relationships with others of his company, to say nothing of the ones that were only polite on the surface; his reaction to Peloren and Elethil this evening, who had certainly said nothing he had not heard before, if never in his native tongue in Gondor—all of it fell quite suddenly into place. Gondor might lack the word for out-caste, but there were other ways to make a man feel his lack of place.  
  
The question, as he lay restlessly twisting a corner of one of his blankets in his hands, was what to do about it. One did not lightly cry 'out-caste', even in Harad, not even among enemies, and certainly not among friends. He was barely a knight, barely blooded, and his position as Ornendil's assistant and as a very junior instructor hardly gave him ground to stand upon and speak before others more senior and worthy of respect. Worse, if asked to justify his claim, he knew he would find it hard to persuade anyone on any specific account—it was everything, the whole situation, and so, in a way that rather confused and perplexed him, it was also somehow nothing at all. He could not catch hold of the substance of the complaint, for it was like smoke—to Gondorians, no doubt it would be more like steam, and so even less visible.   
  
 _And Imrahil never meant to give me any insult._  Whereas Andrahar was guiltily aware that  _he_  had certainly intended to wound with his mention of Imrahil's unpleasant attempt upon his virtue, and he knew his own reasons to be less than pure.  _So he came on their behalf. What of it? 'Tis Imrahil—he looks after his friends,_  he told himself insistently, but could not quite hide from himself, or the stain of jealousy on his own sense of betrayal…  
  
He sighed again. He had violated the seal of their reconciliation simply by bringing it up. Whether or not he was justified in his present anger, he had said, and so tacitly promised, that they would not speak of that shameful incident again. And Andrahar was not one to break his word.   
  
 _I will need to apologize to Imrahil for that, and as soon as I may_ , he thought. It would be awkward, and he glumly resigned himself to it, for there was no help for that. Their periodic arguments had never gone so deep before, nor had Andrahar ever felt so conflicted in his opposition, caught between a still lively anger with his oath-brother, who had managed to crystallize his sense of grievance on the one hand, and the desire for his counsel in this matter on the other. For if there were anyone in Dol Amroth who might listen and try to understand, to help him, it was Imrahil.  
  
And beyond any desire for Imrahil's counsel, beyond any desire for help, there was the desire for  _him_ , and for his friendship, for Andrahar had not so many friends that he could afford to lose one. Especially not this one.   
  
With that rather sobering thought in mind, Andrahar shut his eyes and abandoned himself to uneasy dreams.  
  
  
As a rule, Imrahil slept late on rest days, unless Andrahar or some task dragged him forth from his chambers before mid-morning. Andrahar himself was usually up with the dawn, but after a late and frustrating night, to say nothing of that rather exhausting last session in the salle, the young knight did not stir 'til perhaps an hour past cock's crow, when the bells woke him. After a moment spent contemplating whether he ought to seek out Imrahil immediately, or wait until the Heir showed himself, Andrahar decided to wait until Imrahil emerged of his own volition. In the mean time, he could at least spend a little time practicing. Though perhaps, he thought, as he examined the bruises on his forearms and knuckles that had come of last night's abuse of the pells, he would avoid full-contact bouts.  
  
However, it was not to be. He had barely stepped past his door when someone called out to him: "Andrahar! A moment, please."  
  
Andrahar turned to see Barcalan striding towards him. "Good day, sergeant," he offered, but gave the older man a longer look than was his wont, for Barcalan seemed none too pleased. Indeed, he had the gravely controlled expression of one whose duty brought him no joy this morning.   
  
"Good day," the sergeant returned his greeting, but then added almost immediately, "I have been sent to find you, Andrahar. The masters want a word."  
  
There was only one acceptable response to such a summons, and it was not "Why?" So Andrahar inclined his head instead. "Yes, sergeant," he replied obediently, and mentally crushed underfoot the desire to ask after the matter, though unpleasant suspicion flared immediately.  
  
Fortunately, that seemed to satisfy Barcalan, who gave him a brisk nod, ere setting course for Ornendil's office. Andrahar fell in at his side, but he did not speak, and the sergeant did not trouble himself to try to make conversation.   
  
It was a long, silent walk down the keep's corridor, therefore, or else the silence made it long. But at last, they reached Ornendil's door, just around the corner from the Fledglings' Wing. Barcalan rapped twice in warning, waited a moment, and then opened the door, waving Andrahar within. He himself did not enter, but shut the door, and Andrahar could imagine the sergeant taking up guard beside it. The image did nothing to quell his anxiety.  
  
Nor did the rather solemn assembly that awaited him: Master Ornendil was seated behind his desk, with Masters Théorwyn and Illian ranged along the eastern wall. On the western wall stood a lone and empty chair.  
  
"Have a seat, Andrahar," the Armsmaster said, gesturing to it. The polite tone, however, did not fool Andrahar into believing it was an invitation. Once he had seated himself, Ornendil continued: "I wish we had a more pleasant reason to speak, but certain complaints and questions have arisen that make it necessary to ask you here, that they may be answered."  
  
"What complaints, sir, if I may ask?" Andrahar replied, careful to keep his voice even and low.   
  
"Would you read this, please?" Ornendil proffered a sheet of paper, and Andrahar leaned forward to take it from him. He recognized the hand almost immediately: Harthil's.  _Well_ , he mused,  _I might have expected this._  He had assumed that Harthil's mistrust of him had led him abruptly to take Andrahar's place as examiner yesterday. While frustrating, it was not entirely unheralded, and Andrahar had acquiesced, having no grounds upon which to object if Harthil desired to test the esquires himself. He was, after all, the one who was ultimately responsible for the them. Apparently, however, Harthil had been motivated by something more definite than he had let on yesterday…  
  
Andrahar read swiftly, therefore, seeking that unknown motive. Certainly, there was plenty in the writ about Harthil's concerns over his fairness and suitability for such work, but nothing surprising or novel, given the man's obviously bigoted dislike, until—  
  
 _… certain esquires spoke to me about an altercation in the hall leading to the lecture room between Andrahar and two esquires, Peloren and Elethil. Given the long history of bad blood between them, and the manner in which Haradrim are accustomed to deal with such feuds, I cannot say this comes as a surprise. Although no complaint was lodged with me about any specific injury done either esquire, Elethil did end upon the floor against the wall under circumstances that have not been explained.  
  
I believe that this warrants further investigation, and perhaps suspension of instructor's duties for Andrahar until the situation has been assessed and clarified. _  
  
So that was how the matter would finally be settled, Andrahar thought darkly, as he looked up to meet the expectant regards.  _I suppose Harthil would be the one to run to—he is ready to believe the worst and ask no questions, after all,_  he thought, quickly adding it all up. Rather than bring the matter up themselves, Peloren and Elethil would have Harthil do it for them, and lend his weight to the complaint.  _"Certain esquires," indeed!_    
  
"Andrahar? Have you anything to say?" Ornendil prompted him just then.   
  
"I am aware of my shortcomings as an instructor of Haradric, sir," Andrahar replied, seeking to put off the final complaint for a moment at least. "I have sought to obey the instructions Master Harthil laid on me at the beginning of the term, and I have not violated them, but it is true that I have not made much progress with the esquires. If he wishes for another to teach them, I have no objection."  
  
"Noted. And the report of an altercation?"  
  
And this was where things grew difficult and were doomed to remain so, for having gone this far, the matter must play itself out. The masters could not but take such a complaint—brought by one of their colleagues, even if not a knight, on behalf of unnamed esquires, against one whom the masters had trusted with some measure of authority over the esquires—with the utmost seriousness. They would certainly not accept silence on the matter from the accused. But Andrahar equally was bound. And so:  
  
"I am sorry, sir, but I cannot speak to that," Andrahar replied quietly, and meant every word of it, for he did not wish to sit here today. He liked not at all the notion that he might have to bear blame or censure over something his one-time tormentors—or Elethil, strictly speaking—had begun; but he liked even less the thought that he should be foresworn for either of them. For he had said he would say nothing to the masters—said it, and so tacitly sworn it, and though the irony was sickeningly rich, Andrahar would stand by his word. For whatever else might happen, it was what he had, at the end of even the worst of days, and mindful that he had already surrendered too much of himself the other night with Imrahil, he was not going to be foresworn a second time.  
  
Not that Ornendil or the others knew any of this. Ornendil, indeed, was scowling, as he asked, "What do you mean, you cannot speak to that?"  
  
"With all due respect, sir, I mean just that. I cannot speak to it."  
  
"Why not?" Illian asked quietly from his seat.  
  
Andrahar shook his head, spread his hands slightly, helplessly. "Because sir, I cannot. There is not an answer for me to make."  
  
"Are you denying the content of this complaint?" Ornendil demanded.  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Then you acknowledge it?"  
  
"No, sir. I am not doing either of these things. I mean only what I have said: that I have nothing to say of it—at all, sir," Andrahar maintained, doggedly.   
  
A rather stunned and frustrated silence fell over the room, and Andrahar purposefully kept his gaze fixed upon a point in space, unwilling at just that moment to meet anyone's eyes. At last, though, Ornendil spoke once more.  
  
"You do realize that your reply, while strictly speaking saying nothing, does not weigh in your favor where a complaint of this nature and seriousness is concerned?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Andrahar replied.   
  
"And you realize that, once we finish speaking with all those concerned, if there is enough to warrant an inquiry, you will be ordered to speak?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And you understand that if you are so ordered, to refuse to speak is a violation of your oath and duty as a Swan Knight?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Andrahar said, this time lifting his eyes to meet the Armsmaster's, that it might be clear he did indeed understand.  
  
Ornendil held his eyes a moment in silence, then sighed. "Very well. For the time being, the matter will stand. Until further notice, I am relieving you of all instructor's duties, until we can determine what precisely is the status of this complaint. And for all of your sakes, you are commanded to avoid Peloren and Elethil—do not approach them until this matter, whatever it may or may not be, is resolved."  
  
"As you command, sir."  
  
"Dismissed."  
  
Andrahar rose, bowed politely, and then departed, shutting the door quietly behind him. Sergeant Barcalan glanced at him, but did not speak, and Andrahar did not greet him. He simply stood silently a moment, collecting himself and struggling with the conflicted anger and dismay roiling in the pit of his stomach.   
  
And:  _What now?_  he wondered. Things would fall out as they would, that was plain, and there was nothing now that he could do to help or hinder them. A part of him wanted to go and find Imrahil and ask him for advice, but he suspected he knew what his oath-brother would say, and he was not really in the mood to deal with Imrahil at his most persuasive, attempting to convince him to go back and tell the masters precisely what had happened.   
  
 _And that assumes he would speak with me at all. I **do**  owe him an apology,_ Andrahar reminded himself. But apologies, as well he knew, did not always mend things all at once, and it might be a while before he could impose upon Imrahil for counsel in this current difficulty.  _Always assuming it outlasts his sense of grievance, that is,_  he thought and felt a chill go through him, for if he were caught between contradictory promises, neither of which would stand to be broken or to go unfulfilled, would he even have a place in Dol Amroth anymore?  
  
In the end, he compromised: he wrote a note to Imrahil, requesting some time later that evening by the armory, and after making certain he was not observed, slid it under the Heir's door. That done, he made immediately for the stables. There was no question of keeping any company at the moment—he was too unsettled for that. He needed to get  _out_ , and though Dol Amroth faced many beaches, not every route led to the sea, thankfully. There were plenty of quiet and blissfully isolated places inland if a man wished to think by himself.   
  
Not that Andrahar anticipated long hours of contemplation—as he saddled his horse, he took his spare sword down from its place on the shelf and strapped it to the saddle. Unsettled as he was, thinking would be impossible without something to focus him and blunt feeling. With a final tug at the cinch, he gave his horse a slap on the neck and coaxed the gelding out of the stall.   
  
"It'll be a good, hard run for us both, lad," he promised, and sighed inwardly. It was going to be a long day…  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
It was late afternoon by the time he returned, feeling weary enough to face what promised to be an uncomfortable evening and a difficult conversation with Imrahil. And it was a good thing, too, for by the time he had seen to his horse, his sword, and washed up, he was just in time to join his fellows for the Standing Silence before sitting down to endure a rather less sacral silence. Conversation was muted, and was certainly not addressed to him, though he could feel the surreptitious glances cast in his direction. Barcalan gave him one long look before attending to his own supper, and Andrahar could tell the sergeant was troubled. But Barcalan did not ask, and Andrahar was unwilling to volunteer anything. Certainly he would not do so in so public a place, much though he regretted the idea that Barcalan might think less of him, for Andrahar had come to respect the sergeant greatly over the course of the term.   
  
Nor was it his table alone that seemed uneasy. The mood in the hall was quite evidently tense—some word of trouble, clearly, had got out. News traveled swiftly among large bodies of men, and the army was absolutely the worst hotbed of gossip to be found, outside of brothels. No doubt, word of some vague report of an incident in the ranks had leaked out. That might explain Peloren's absence at table, and Elethil's, Andrahar noted. He caught Imrahil, from time to time, staring meaningfully at him, but unable to interpret such looks, Andrahar eventually ignored them in favor of finishing his supper. Imrahil would have the chance to make his thoughts plain to him soon enough, after all.  
  
As soon as he could, therefore, Andrahar excused himself from the company and slipped out of the hall, making for the relative sanctuary of the armory. The armory was attached to the salle, or rather, it was the other way around, and in fact had two parts: the section that housed practice arms and the section—usually kept locked—that housed the keep's store of live steel and other weapons. A guardsman kept watch over the single entrance, which was why Andrahar had asked Imrahil to meet him by the armory and not in it. Few would be abroad after sunset, and even fewer would be seeking even the blunted practice arms, but Andrahar did not wish to have the guardsman listening in, though equally, he did not feel a desire to have this conversation in the room he had to live in, for all its appealing privacy.  
  
So he found a spot against the northern wall and settled with his back against it, arms crossed over his chest against the night breezes. He had been there perhaps a quarter of an hour, mayhap a little longer, watching the night sky, when another, silhouetted figure appeared suddenly from around the corner. Andrahar straightened, and the other seemed to as well. Then, almost as one, they spoke:  
  
"Imrahil?" Andrahar asked, expectantly. But:  
  
"Elya?" came the desperately hopeful call.   
  
Stunned silence settled a moment, then: " _Peloren_?" Andrahar replied, dismayed.   
  
"Varda’s darkened stars!" the other swore. Before Andrahar could react to that, however, the other advanced on him, demanding, "Did you speak to Elethil today?"  
  
"I have not  _seen_  Elethil today," he countered, stung, but also taken somewhat aback, by the accusatory urgency in Peloren’s voice, to say nothing of sudden, crowding proximity that made his flesh crawl, seeming as it did to press upon his senses, threatening a most unhappy reaction...   
  
"You are certain of that?" Peloren pressed, staring closely at him.   
  
"I said I have not seen him; what uncertainty is there in that?" Andrahar replied, easing back a pace, seeking a little relief, even as he sought a way out of this conversation and Peloren’s company, mindful of Ornendil’s ban.   
  
"You  _said_  you would not speak to the masters, either!" came the rather caustic response.   
  
At that, Andrahar stiffened, offense warring with confusion and sudden suspicion. "I did not—they spoke to me." When Peloren merely snorted, clearly disbelieving, Andrahar continued, insistently, " _They_  spoke to me, about a complaint Master Harthil sent them, on behalf of someone else: ‘certain esquires’ who spoke of our quarrel to him."  
  
"Of course they did!" Peloren retorted, and Andrahar strangled the urge to shake sense into him. Instead:  
  
"Stop being a fool and think a moment, will you?" he snapped. " _I_  do not need an excuse to put either of you in front of the masters after last night—I certainly do not need to feign mercy to you and then cry insolence to them."   
  
"And  _we_  are under oath, Andrahar—there can be no trouble from us, or we are cast out. We have not ignored every offense this term and last to poison the well we live from now!" Peloren replied.  
  
"I  _read_  Master Harthil’s complaint," Andrahar said quietly. "It said he acted on the word of certain esquires. Are you telling me that those esquires were not you or Elethil?"  
  
"Of course not," Peloren answered. Then: "They did not say anything of Master Harthil to me. They said only that they had had report of some quarrel between you and Elethil and me." He shook his head, distressedly. "I do not know what they said to Elethil—they would not speak to us together, but took us one at a time. I suppose they wished to see if our stories matched."  
  
"What did you tell them?" Andrahar asked.  
  
"What could I tell them? I said the matter was settled and we had no quarrel anymore unless you wished for one."  
  
"And I said I could not speak to the matter at all, even to say whether there was one."  
  
"What?"  
  
Andrahar snorted. "I said I would say nothing to the masters of our quarrel, Peloren, unless you gave me further reason," he replied, firmly. "And I keep my word."  
  
"But if you said nothing, then who…?" Peloren trailed off into a moment’s troubled silence, but he did not linger in it. "It does not matter," he said, dismissing the question. "I have to find Elethil."  
  
"If he does not wish to keep company—" Andrahar began, but Peloren, in his agitation, cut him off.  
  
"This is not about keeping company or not! I  _have_  to find him. I have not seen him since this morning, and I do not know—" He stopped himself then, shaking his head. "I have to find him," he insisted, quietly. "I just have to know where he is."  
  
The fear behind those words was palpable, and struck Andrahar forcibly as entirely too familiar, child of Harad’s noble caste that he was.  _My life is my honor, and my honor my life. That I swear, and this I pray: that should aught shameful take the one, then let me take the other._  So men of worth bound themselves to serve in Harad, and made redemption a fearful thing. "How long have you been seeking him?" he asked.  
  
"An hour, maybe. He was upset this morning, but would not speak of it." Peloren shook his head. "I thought he would come back for supper, so I waited and I looked for him when the others had gone in. But I have not found him."  
  
"Have you told Master Ornendil?"  
  
"No. I don’t—that is, if it is nothing, I do not wish to make anything of it. If it is something…" Peloren hesitated, then finished softly, "He’s not been himself since Yule, and I don’t know…"  
  
 _Oh yes, you do,_  Andrahar thought, but did not say so. Instead, he urged, "Go to Imrahil. Tell him everything—he will help you look, and help muster others who can be trusted to keep matters quiet until ‘tis plain they must be spoken of."  
  
"No need," said a new voice just then, and Peloren and Andrahar turned swiftly, to where Imrahil was standing, quietly listening in on their conversation. "I came to meet you, Andra, as soon as I could get away." The Heir moved to join them, glancing from Andrahar to Peloren, ere he continued, "If Elethil is missing, he might be anywhere in the keep or the city or even beyond. It will take more than the three of us to find him."  
  
"Aldan, Teilin, Ambor," Peloren said, and shook his head vehemently. "I do not want Faldion and his lads, or Celdir and his lot, to know anything of this. I do not trust them, and neither would Elethil, and if he is distraught…"  
  
"Six people is not very many, especially if Andrahar must stay with me or you," Imrahil warned.   
  
"I know," Peloren replied, but did not give ground. "Aldan, Teilin, and Ambor."  
  
Imrahil sighed. "If you insist, then so be it. Andra, do you know where they live?"  
  
Andrahar shook his head. "No."  
  
"Aldan lives in Roper’s Lane, down in the South Docks," Peloren supplied. "He can take you to the others."  
  
"Roper’s Lane," Andrahar repeated, and glanced at Imrahil, who nodded.   
  
"Get them. Peloren and I shall continue looking through the keep, and we shall meet you at the stables by moonrise. Go!" the Heir ordered.  
  
Andrahar wasted no further words; he simply turned and left at a run, heading directly for the stables. Roper’s Lane was far down in the city, and speed was needed. Moonrise was not so very far away…  
  
 _The Fire grant that Elethil is as close!_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Books of bad poetry courtesy of Ultimatums 6 andUltimatums 7.
> 
> And to those following this story: I may not update next week. I will be off to watch my brother graduate from college with a double major in Film Production and History, and enter into the vast army of the unemployed or badly exploited workers of this world. Congrats, Bro! Ya done us proud. Now get out there and make us some good movies!


	8. Hope and Folly

"I assume you came here for a reason," Imrahil said, even as Andrahar departed at a run, and Peloren dragged his eyes back to the Heir, who was regarding him with concern that even darkness could not hide. "Did you ask within after Elethil?"

"I had not. Not yet," Peloren replied, feeling his heart speed.

But before he could nerve himself to return to his original purpose, Imrahil said, "Wait here, then. I will look—and I shall be discreet, no fear! I should only be a little while."

Peloren only nodded, not trusting himself to answer, and as Imrahil disappeared quickly around the corner, making for the door on the western wall and the door, he put his head in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut and breathed, trying to steady himself. 

It had been a miserable day. Summoned early to speak to the masters, he and Elethil had arrived at Ornendil's door, where Barcalan had asked Elethil to wait while the masters had a word with Peloren. Once within Ornendil's office, the questions had been quick to come, and Peloren, angry, fearful, and feeling both betrayed and ashamed at once, had struggled to answer without answering, to obey as much as he could without mentioning the specifics of what had happened. For although he was fairly certain his own conduct would not have been faulted, he knew Elethil's might be, and did not wish to be the one to implicate him. About the only thing he had been able to assure the masters of was that Andrahar had not struck either of them, that he was unhurt, and that he had not intended to press the unnamed, but personal, matter between him and Andrahar. 

Oddly, that had seemed to suffice, and he had been dismissed to pace anxiously before the Armsmaster's door while the masters had had their time with Elethil. Eventually, he had been recalled, at which point Ornendil had informed them both that for the time being, no action could be taken, but that they should expect to be called upon later once the masters had gained a clearer understanding of the circumstances. 

"Think carefully, therefore, about this course you seem to be upon," the Armsmaster had warned. "When next we ask you for an explanation, silence will not be tolerated." 

With that, he had dismissed them to their own devices, and Elethil had almost immediately made for his own room. But when Peloren had tried to follow, his friend had shut him out. "Just leave me be," he had said shortly. 

"But Elya, we have to think what we'll say—" 

"No, we do not. 'Tis done, Pel," Elethil had said harshly. "At least for me, 'tis over—if Andrahar wants me out for disrespect, there's nothing to contest. There is nothing more to think of. Now go!"

And the door had shut rather violently. Peloren had stood there for a time, stunned and dismayed, but eventually, he had left. And being disturbed and distressed over the thought of losing Elethil so close to the end of their training, he had done as he always did, when the option existed: he went to the stables, saddled Lightfall, and went for a very long ride on the Belfalas side of the bay. Once he had reached a secluded stretch of the shore, he had stopped, dismounted, and sat upon a flat outcropping of sandstone, watching the sea roll in. His horse, sensing his mood, had stayed close, nuzzling him gently, but Peloren had been able to muster only a distracted caress for the gelding. 

Eventually, he had returned to the city, but Elethil had not responded to his knocking, and imagining that his friend must be ignoring him or else, exhausted as he had been these past few weeks, asleep, he had left him alone once more. It had not been until supper that he had truly begun to worry. Peloren had waited in the halls for Elethil to emerge from his room, but he never had. Supper was well begun by the time he knocked again on Elethil's door, and this time, receiving no answer, he had opened it, calling cautiously, "Elya?"

When still he received no response, he had entered and lit a lamp, then stood staring about the empty chamber. Everything was in order: the bed immaculately made as required, and nothing left lying about, not even upon the desk. Even for an esquire's chambers, it was spotless, and Peloren had begun to feel very odd and alarmed, for at a closer look, it was as if his friend had cleaned up for holidays and a long stay elsewhere: books were missing, and the clothespress and desk drawers, upon inspection, had been emptied. The only thing left was the trunk sitting forlornly in a corner. The room simply did not feel lived in; it had been swept clean. Terrifyingly clean. Abandoned.

There had been a lad once, some years ago, when Peloren and Elethil had first arrived in Dol Amroth—an older lad, Meldarion. Peloren had never come to know him well—he had not had many friends, it seemed. And then one day he had gone missing. By noon, the hunt had begun, and by evening, it had been called off. One of the healers had found him—where or when or how, precisely, no one had ever been told, but the talk had it he had cut himself and simply sat down to wait for the end. No one knew why. At the funeral, the Prince had spoken eloquently of the burden of loneliness, but in the end, there was simply no explanation. These things happened sometimes, just like training accidents; one never could predict when or who or for what reason. 

At the time, Peloren had pitied Meldarion's few friends, who had been badly shaken. One had even gone home, unwilling to continue his training. Peloren had thought the other lad too grieved then, but it occurred to him now that guilt might have been the worse burden. How, after all, could one be friends with a lad, in his company daily, and not see it coming? For faced with the possibility that Elethil's absence might end as Meldarion's had, Peloren found it entirely too easy a matter to look back—now—over the last two terms and see his friend floundering, slowly sinking into despair. Yet somehow, it had never occurred to him that low spirits might mean something more and worse than what he himself endured.

How could I have overlooked it? he asked himself, and had consciously to remember to add: There's nothing to overlook yet. He might be anywhere—he might have gone out for awhile. After all, what if his things are gone? He might have put them away—the trunk was heavy enough, and he has had reason since last term to fear what others might do in his absence. He is upset, and I know why, but surely…!

But there was no 'surely' until he saw Elethil walk up and greet him, and that had not happened yet. Memory of Meldarion had sent him frantically about the keep, seeking Elethil in the usual places: the salle, the library, laundry, baths, the kitchen, the courtyards and terrace gardens of the keep, his own room (just in case), and even Aldan's—all without success. 

He had inquired with the bell tower's wardens—none recalled an esquire or anyone who did not attend the bells ascending. The armory had presented itself as the next place to look. But desperate though he was to know what had become of Elethil, he had not been able to make himself go within immediately, dreading what he might find. For though practice arms were meant to lessen the chance of serious injury, any man with some training in weapons could use one to lethal effect…

With a shiver, Peloren blinked his eyes open, refusing the awful images imagination conjured, and hands fisted as he pushed them through his hair. And: There is no reason to think so. No reason. He is fine. He is just out for a time. He is fine…

But Valar, Valar, what if Elethil were not? What was he going to say to Elethil's family? To his parents? His brothers? They're all Swan Knights—all of them, we are all supposed to be brothers, and then this happens! What am I going to say to them?

Hands drew back then and he buried his face in them, as he tried to put a stop to racing thoughts. Valar, let him be well, let him be well, let him be well, or I'll kill him myself…!

"Pel?" Imrahil called to him, and he startled badly. "No sign of him—the guardsman said he hadn't seen him about, either," the Heir hastened to reassure him as he rejoined Peloren. 

"Valar be praised," Peloren muttered, feeling his stomach unclench just a little. 

"Not until we find him. And he will be well—I am sure he will be," Imrahil said, and pressed his arm as he bid him: "Come. Let us continue looking. Tell me where you have been already, and we shall go from there."

 

In the end, they decided it would be swifter, and they would cover more ground, if they divided up the keep and grounds within the inner wall. Thus once Peloren had detailed his hunt, they had each taken a section to search—east and west—and agreed to meet by the stables by moonrise.

So it was that, half an hour later, perhaps, Peloren hurried towards the stables, having sought Elethil throughout the better part of the eastern wing of the keep without success. The moon was just rising by the time he arrived, and pale light fell upon the forms of several horses and riders gathered in the yard. 

As he approached, one of them—Aldan—stepped forward, his brow knit with worry, and he gripped Peloren's shoulders. "Pel," he greeted him quietly. "Are you all right?"

"Has anyone seen Elethil?" Peloren demanded immediately. 

From behind Aldan, Teilin answered, "Not since yesterday." And beside him, Ambor shook his head. 

"Same here," Aldan replied heavily.

"Then there is your answer," Peloren said shortly, and glanced round. "Where is Imrahil? And Andrahar?"

"Within. They'll be but a moment," Aldan assured him. "Imrahil wanted a word with the stable hands."

"Why?" Peloren asked. "I took Lightfall out earlier today. Elethil's horse is still in his stall."

Aldan shrugged. "Mayhap he went out for awhile and came back. Someone might have seen him."

"Better than that!" came Imrahil's voice, as he emerged from the stable. Behind him, Andrahar followed, leading two horses, one of them Peloren's. As the four of them gathered about the Heir and his friend, Imrahil explained: "I did ask the stable hands whether anyone had seen Elethil. As it happens, the chief hostler, Berendil, was about earlier today. And he saw him—he said Elethil came in sometime about mid-afternoon and took one of the spare horses out."

"But why?" Peloren demanded, puzzled. "There's nothing wrong with Greywind. I know, for I saw him this afternoon when I came in!" 

"Berendil was curious about that, too. He said he asked Elethil that very question," Imrahil replied. "According to him, Elethil said something about not wanting to be beholden, but no more than that. Berendil said he seemed much preoccupied, and wished him a good day, and then left."

"Did he say where he was going?" Peloren demanded, anxious and eager. 

"No. But he has not returned—the horse is still out, and no one has seen Elethil since," Imrahil said, unhappily.

A brief, heavy silence fell, ere Teilin broke it to say, "That does not sound to me as if he meant to stay in the city. We could separate—search the outer wall, then spread out from there."

"But where would he go? He could be anywhere!" Ambor murmured, dismayed. 

"We need more men," Aldan said, and looked to Imrahil, who nodded reluctantly, even as Peloren replied:

"No. Not yet, I do not—"

"All of you seem to forget his purpose," came Andrahar's quiet voice, and immediately drew all eyes to him. 

"What do you mean?" Imrahil asked.

"If Peloren is right to fear his absence, then Elethil does not mean to come back. Such men choose their time and place and means with care, not by hazard. So—" and here, Andrahar raised his voice a little, speaking oppressively over Teilin's somewhat outraged "In Harad, mayhap, but surely—!" "—we need to know: has he some place he prefers to go? Would Elethil go toward Caldor? Or would he choose a means other than the one available to us all—" Andrahar gestured to the daggers at their belts "—that might need some specific place? What say you, Peloren? You know him best."

"I—I do not know. A moment, just let me think!" he snarled when Imrahil opened his mouth to speak. And he shoved his hands into his belt, bowing his head, seeking some little escape from the pitying, anxious, and unbearably expectant regards of the others. The question of what means Elethil might choose was too painful to consider in much detail and so he racked his memory, seeking an answer to the other. Where would he go? 

At length, and hesitantly, he said, "There is a place up the coast—north, towards Caldor side. 'Tis a cove, below a village that sits atop a steep cliff—Calardin cove. We have gone there sometimes, when the weather first starts to warm. He likes it—'tis quiet, and the villagers have grown used to us: they are kind enough but leave us be. And it is some ways away." He paused and glanced up, letting his gaze rove fearfully round the circle of faces, and come to rest at last upon the Heir's face. "But I do not know with certainty…"

"None of us do," Imrahil said, soothingly. "Well, we shall keep that in mind for the moment. But before we consider it further, let us at least make a pass down the main streets of the city." Imrahil paused, glancing round at the five of them. "We will ride in pairs and each take a separate way down through the city. Should anyone catch sight of him or of a horse with our tack that you do not recognize as belonging to anyone in particular, stop and look. We regroup at the gates, and if none has caught sight of him, then we'll make a quick circle about the outer walls—half of us shall go one way, and half the other. If we still do not find him, then we will discuss this cove of yours, Pel. Andra, you'll ride with me. Teilin and Ambor, you ride together. Aldan, go with Peloren. Agreed?"

"Aye!" came a murmured chorus, and with that, they mounted up. Wordlessly, Andrahar handed off Lightfall to Peloren, then kneed his horse to go and join Imrahil. 

Once settled in the saddle, Peloren turned Lightfall to stand abreast of Aldan, whose expression in the moonlight was not particularly pleased. "Aldan?" The other glanced up at him inquiringly. "Can you keep up?"

"Don't much like night riding. Too quick and dark," the former footman replied, voice a bit taut. But: "Lead on. Let us go find Elethil so I can thrash him for the scare!" 

"If only it is one," Peloren murmured. Then: "Come!" So saying, he urged Lightfall to a trot and made for the gates that led down into the city. 

~ 0 ~

 

But Peloren saw no sign of Elethil on their way down Dol Amroth's streets; nor did Aldan; nor did anyone, and the ride about the walls showed up no trace of him either. And the guards at the gates, when questioned, could not recall seeing a lone rider depart from the city, though they were swift to add that there had been a number of merchants coming and going all day, with and without guards, which made it difficult to be certain of anything.

"How far is Calardin?" Imrahil asked, as they gathered to consider their course.

"'Tis the better part of an hour north," Peloren replied, and swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. For it needed no one to say it for everyone to know: if Elethil had been driven to such desperation as to desire death, then if he had gone north, they would never reach him in time.

Andrahar looked to Imrahil, then back at Peloren, and then back to Imrahil, ere he said: "We should go to Master Ornendil—tell him what we fear and ask for assistance."

"It does not need so many to search one cove," Imrahil replied, but got only an impatient shake of the head in response.

"That is not the point! We do not even know whether he has actually left the city—"

"You were the one who asked where he might go," Peloren began, rather hotly, only to be cut off just as quickly. 

"He may be here or he may not," Andrahar retorted. "And he may be there, or he may not be, but it is an hour even to reach this cove, you say. If we are wrong, that is two hours' lost time at least."

"He's right, lad," Aldan murmured, and Teilin nodded agreement. 

"Some of us should stay," Ambor said, glancing round. "At least a few of us: we could continue looking, and more carefully at that."

Peloren hesitated then, torn. For he knew that it was reasonable advice. And what if Elethil really is here, somewhere in the city? Or nearby? What if I am wrong? Was he willing to risk Elethil's life on his own admittedly chancy estimation? And we do not know, still, whether he is in any trouble. He might be well and simply in need of silence for a time… But his heart did not believe it. And yet, believing otherwise, somehow he could not yet admit the most likely possibility: that they were already too late; that it would make little difference whether they spoke to the masters about Elethil's state of mind, for the judgment of the masters as to a man's suitability to the ranks meant nothing to the dead. 

Which was why Peloren, after a moment's anguished consideration, shook his head. "No," he replied, and looked straight at Imrahil. "He's all right. He's fine. We just… we have to go and find him," he said, with just a hint of pleading in his insistence.

Andrahar sighed. Aldan bit his lip, and Imrahil looked as though he were regretting his earlier words, but Peloren held his eye. And: Don't! he willed him, and did not dare to finish the thought, lest thinking should somehow communicate itself and bring about the very thing so carefully left unthought. The others were all looking to Imrahil now for guidance, and Peloren watched him waver, knew that if Imrahil were to turn back, there would be none to go forward… perhaps not even he himself. And that would be unbearable—the death of hope, however, foolish. 

Mayhap the Heir understood that. Or mayhap he understood, too, that what time they had had, had most likely run out already—that whatever they did next would matter to no one but Peloren. Who could say? But it seemed to Peloren that something, some insight, flickered in his eyes as he stared back at him, and then Imrahil nodded, once and sharply. 

"Very well," he said, and urged his mount to come about. "We will split up: I will go with you, Peloren. The rest of you, keep looking about Dol Amroth."

"You are not going to Calardin, Imrahil," Andrahar interjected immediately. 

"I'll be with Peloren—"

"Who will be preoccupied with Elethil no matter what the outcome. If you must, let Aldan go with him, but stay in the city and send for help in this search!"

"I wouldn't mind going," Aldan assured them all swiftly. But Imrahil shook his head.

"Aldan knows the lower docks areas of Dol Amroth better than I do. For that matter, I'm certain you know some areas of Dol Amroth better than I do, Andra," the Heir said, and gave his friend a significant look. 

"You are not leaving the city with one esquire for escort, Imri!"

"I did it all the time two years ago," the Heir pointed out mildly.

This elicited what might well have been a curse, or else a prayer—quick and low and obscurely Haradric as it was, Peloren could not tell. "Imri, you cannot simply leave. You must tell someone."

"But I may not," Imrahil replied. 

"Why?"

"Because," the Heir said quietly, and glanced aside at Peloren. "I promised I would not bring any tale."

"What do you mean, you promised—?"

"Andra," Imrahil interrupted. "We are wasting time, and there's little enough of it."

"This makes no sense!"

At which Peloren, who had listened to this debate with mounting impatience, to say nothing of fear, and no little resentment, snapped at Andrahar, "You are not the one who could be undone by this! You've nothing to lose in this!"

"You think Elethil's li—" Andrahar began ominously, but was once more interrupted.

"Gentlemen!" Imrahil intervened, and pressed a restraining hand swiftly against Andrahar's shoulder, then shot Peloren a warning look. "We will follow both suggestions: Aldan, Ambor, Teilin, Andrahar: search the docks, search the city, do what you must. Peloren thinks Elethil might have gone north—very well. He and I will go and return as soon as we find sign of Elethil or our search of the cove proves in vain."

Andrahar glared at Imrahil a fulminating moment, then gave Peloren a black look ere addressing the Heir once more. "Imri, be reasonable," he urged quietly.

"Are you going to ask me to break my word, Andrahar?" Which was a purely rhetorical question in no need of an answer, and everyone knew it, including Andrahar, though by the look on his face, he was sorely tempted to do just that. But instead he changed tacks to say:

"Four men are not enough, and you know it. The which being so, it hardly matters if you stay and I go."

"No offense, Andra," the Heir said firmly, "but I think the two of you alone would be less than useful to each other. 'Tis not so far, and there is little to the north in any case to trouble us, or so the maps tell it, as I recall." 

"I do not care how little there may be! If you insist on this journey, Imri, I am coming with you."

"Then come if you must, but let us end this dispute," Imrahil replied, sounding just a little irritated. "The quicker begun, the sooner done! The three of us will go, the rest of you, continue searching. Peloren, let us go," he said, and Peloren felt a vast relief sweep through him, despite his reluctance to have Andrahar along. So long as he does not interfere! Peloren thought, and then pushed the matter aside as his thoughts turned once more to Elethil. But the undesired third of their search party, it seemed, was not quite ready to depart.

"Aldan," Andrahar said, as Peloren and Imrahil turned their mounts. "Your sword, please!"

At that, Peloren glanced back over his shoulder to stare in puzzlement at Aldan, who quickly unstrapped his blade from its place just under his leg. Then seeing Peloren's look, he shrugged, and said, by way of explanation: "Habit—always keep something to hand, and I've always preferred something with a bit of reach." So saying, he tossed the weapon to Andrahar, who caught it, then handed the sword to Imrahil. 

"Let us get this folly over with," the Southron said tersely.

Imrahil shook his head with a certain fond exasperation. "All right, then, since you are satisfied. Pel—lead the way!" 

Eager to be away, Peloren obeyed without another word to either of his companions and spurred Lightfall to gallop, glancing back only once to see the other two fall in behind him, spreading out a bit at Imrahil's signal to watch the ground as they went. Not that any of them were trackers or Rangers, but they would take no chances. And as they rode, Peloren shut his eyes a moment and prayed that he was right, for if he were not, if it should happen that Elethil had been in Dol Amroth the whole time, and had not been found soon enough for want of closer searching… 

Thought shied away from the unthinkable. Instead: He will be well, he told himself. He will be well. He has to be. As Lightfall sped through the night, the words repeated in his mind, unfolding in time to his horse's hoofs, to his own heartbeat: He will be well… he will be well… he has to be… for he is well… 

 

They followed the road north for some miles and then, as it curved inland, they abandoned it to cut over the scrub plain and down onto the strand, onto the still firm earth between the undergrowth and the sand. The moon crept higher in the sky, an incongruously cheerful sight whose watery light faintly lit the land and played upon the waters. Still, there was no sign that Peloren could see of any rider; it was simply too dark, and the earth too much a blur, beneath and before him, for him to remark aught of note. 

After a time, the land to their right began to rise again, slowly at first, and then more swiftly as sandstone cliffs shot up to tower over their heads, and then began to encroach upon the beach. The scrub fields began to grow sparser, disappearing eventually as the land narrowed, leaving only beach. The waves sounded loudly, echoing off the rocks as they passed in a shower of sand kicked up by their horses. 

At length, Peloren drew rein, holding up his hand to signal his companions to stop. When they had, he pointed up ahead of them. "There is the southern spur—beyond that lies the cove and above it, the village," he said. The Heir grunted and gave a nod.

"I remember this place now. I've been here before a few times, when I was a child," Imrahil replied. "The villagers are divers, mostly—seeking crabs and the like in the shallows and out on the shelf where the water grows deep. 'Tis a very open beach."

Which was good, in a way: even dark as it was, with the moon above and a few torches, they ought to have little trouble searching the shore. Peloren breathed in deeply, striving for calm. "Let us go," he urged, and kneed Lightfall to a quick canter. The gelding obeyed, and Imrahil and Andrahar followed suit. 

The beach curved about the rocky outcropping, and they came to a point where they could look out from the tip of one side of the cove to the other. Though thin and weak, the moon's light reflected off the white sand, making it seem eerily bright, save where the cliff's shadows lay. Over long centuries, the waves had chiseled away at the beach, forming a terrace: a higher and a lower level. Kelp lay in dark and trailing mounds, marking out the reach of the tides; the air was heavy with its scent, and other than the rush of the sea, it was silent. 

"Let's spread out—take a look around," Imrahil advised, and laid a hand upon a stricken Peloren's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Come on."

Out of habit more than belief that they should find aught, they obeyed. The three riders fanned out. No one spoke; no one called. It seemed plain that there was no purpose in doing so. He isn't here, Peloren thought miserably. We would have found his horse at least, but there is nothing, there is—

Light flashed suddenly in the darkness, out upon the water, and Peloren stiffened, confused. Again it flashed and then disappeared. What is that? he wondered, kneeing Lightfall forward, and urging his mount out into the surf, even, as it came again. 'Tis close, he thought, squinting into the dim-lit darkness. Something pricked at memory, though he could not quite bring it to light. But he did stand in his stirrups and call out: "Imri! Over here!"

In short order, there came the sound of splashing as Imrahil, with Andrahar hard on his heels, joined him in the shallows. "What is it?" the Heir asked. 

"Do you see it?" Peloren demanded.

"See what?" Imrahil asked, puzzled, as Andrahar, too, leaned forward, gazing into the night. 

"There," Peloren said, pointing past the northern point of the cove and out over the waters. A light flashed, one, two, three, and then died. 

"’Tis a signal," Imrahil murmured. "From a ship—I can see the outline, though just barely. They are sending a message."

"But to whom?" Andrahar demanded.

"There is no light on the mast," Imrahil murmured, sounding alarmed. "Gondorian ships always run with a lantern on the mast at night—blue or red, usually."

"It might be some fishing boat, not a naval ship," Peloren hazarded, though even to his ears, his voice lacked conviction. 

"Why would a fishing boat use signals like that?" Andrahar spoke, giving voice to his doubt. "They are aimed at shore—we are in the line of sight, or we should not see them at all, but there are no lighthouses here for any to signal to." An uneasy silence settled, each man gazing out into the darkness, wondering, as once more, light flashed—twice, then a break, and then once more.

"'Tis the fourth time," Peloren murmured anxiously.

"I think," Imrahil said slowly, as he stared out to sea, "that we ought to get off this beach." And when Peloren and Andrahar stared at him, he explained: "We are in the line of sight, as Andra said. They have no mast lights, yet are signaling someone to shore-side, using a code I do not know. And although I can just make out the ship's outline against the sea, I cannot see the sails—not as I would expect, even in moonlight. White should show, at this distance." At which Andrahar sucked in a breath.

"If they were white. These are not," he declared, and shot Imrahil a look. 

"No, I do not believe they are," the Heir replied grimly.

"Corsairs," Andrahar growled. 

"In March?" Peloren demanded, incredulous.

"Cunning is no respecter of seasons, and we know the Corsairs have been growing bolder," Andrahar retorted, but then added impatiently: "Gentlemen, we can debate all of this later. For the moment, let us get off the beach. We should make for the village if we can. Peloren, how do we leave?"

"There is a road, there, toward the midpoint of the cove. But it winds—we cannot take it too quickly."

"But we can get to it quickly. Let us go—but have an eye out for men on the move!" 

With that, they were off at the gallop, Peloren taking the lead since he knew the way. And: Corsairs! What under the stars are they doing here now? he wondered, bewildered. Thinking over the past two years, he supposed Andrahar was right, that they had been more of a threat—he had heard more of villages and townsteads burned or threatened, and the sailors and marines down in Dol Amroth’s taverns were wont to complain of them more often than in the past, it seemed. And Illian had said, had he not, that knights more often shipped out as part of a warship's complement these days?

And this is on the road to Dol Amroth, he thought. ‘Tis an approach we do not watch so carefully, and they would have the high ground most of the way, and a clear path inland… Perhaps it did make sense—even too much sense, despite its being March, and Peloren urged Lightfall onward more swiftly, all his thought bent upon the village and the road and the climb that awaited. 

For this is no game now: we must reach the top first!

 

Despite their fears, they met no one on their way, however; this might be good, for it might mean that any raiding party was behind them. But it might also mean that the pirates had got ahead of them, and so risky though it was, they kept to their horses and moved alertly up the path as it scaled its hairpin way up the cliffside. On unspoken agreement, Peloren went first, followed by Imrahil, while Andrahar brought up the rear, that they might take advantage of Peloren's knowledge of their road on the one hand, but also that Imrahil might be protected from any danger that might lurk ahead or behind. Peloren tried not to think overmuch of that, though of course, he knew his duty. Meanwhile, he gave Lightfall his head, trusting his horse’s eyes and nose more than his own senses in the darkness. He simply clung to the saddle and prayed his faith was not misplaced. 

Happily, it seemed it was not: Lightfall made good time, guiding his fellows with a soft snort or a whiffle of warning from time to time as he navigated the turns and the narrow space. At last, the gelding surged forward, up the last of the slope to the crest of the cliff, and stood there, ears pricked forward as he minced a bit, alert for danger. Nothing greeted them, however, but silence and a cool night wind. With a sigh of relief, Peloren turned his mount toward the village and spurred him forward, glancing back only once to see the others following. 

The little village of divers and fisherfolk was dark and quiet—a sleepy gathering of small wooden houses turned inward against the squalls and weather of winter. Ripe for burning, Peloren thought darkly, as he drew rein and dismounted. 

"This way," he beckoned his fellows, and jogged toward a house that stood at the center of the others. The few times he and Elethil had come here, they had learned that the old man who kept it served as the head of the village, he and his wife, the herbwoman, tending to the few needs of their neighbors. But those needs had never included an armed response to pirates, and Peloren found time to wonder, as he banged on the door, what precisely the three of them were going to do. And I am not even armed! he thought, and swore viciously to himself, self-deprecating in his fear.

But there was no time to think of that, for just then, the door cracked open, and a pair of eyes in a wizened, lantern-lit round face peered out. "What is the—who are you?" This last came out rather sharply.

"Master Dorhan, you may not remember my name, but we have met," Peloren said quickly. "A friend and I have come here to visit before—my name is Peloren."

"Peloren?" Dorhan frowned, holding up his lantern to peer more closely at him. And after a moment, his face cleared. "Ah yes! I do recall you now. You’re with one of the city’s companies, is that not so?"

"Aye, I am. And for that very reason, we must speak, sir. There may be trouble—we believe there are Corsairs on the bay, and that they are making for the village!"

"Pirates? Here? At this time of year?" Dorhan shook his head, an unwitting echo of Peloren's disbelieving reaction. "Are you certain?"

"Master Dorhan," Imrahil stepped forward then. "We cannot be certain, but do you wish to chance that we are wrong? Please—rouse your folk. At least make them ready; better a false alarm than false safety!"

"And who are you?" Dorhan asked. The poor old man seemed most bewildered, and Peloren bit his lip and the impulse to shake the fellow to his senses. However:

"He is Imrahil, son of Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth," Andrahar said quietly, but in a tone that would admit no challenge. And when Dorhan gaped, he added, rather oppressively: "Go and wake the others—there’s a matter to be dealt with."

That seemed finally to spur him from stunned confusion, as Dorhan called within to his wife, and then stepped outside. With a short, awkward bob for Imrahil, he then went as quickly as he could to the next house, and from there to another, pounding on doors and calling to those within. In the meantime, Imrahil, Andrahar, and Peloren retreated a ways with their horses to confer.

As soon as they had, Andrahar turned to Peloren and asked: "Just how isolated is this village? Are there others in the area? Perhaps beyond this cove?"

"I do not think so. The villagers say it takes them a day to walk to the next town north of here. And 'tis still some ten miles inland, back toward the road and Dol Amroth, before you find any farms, for 'tis all sand that way and poor for growing aught."

"Then that is one small mercy!" Imrahil said. "But we should have some care for them, nonetheless. I doubt me that we should be able to stop the Corsairs here; those further south should be warned to flee or arm themselves, if possible."

"Imri, there are only three of us," Peloren pointed out. "And you are the only one with a sword—"

And then he stopped at the sound of steel slithering from a sheath strapped under a saddle flap. Andrahar eyed the edge of his blade—not the scimitar he preferred, but the bastard sword issued to Swan Knights and esquires—and nodded, seeming satisfied with it. 

"We have two swords," Andrahar corrected coolly. "Imrahil, if these are fisher-folk and crab-hunters, as you say, then I imagine someone here has a spear he could lend, yes?"

"I expect so, though it would be a bit short and thin for a pike—"

"But it should serve as a dart," Andrahar said. "A rider with three or four of them ought to be well enough armed. So hand Aldan's sword to Peloren, and take Lightfall with you for speed—"

"Now wait a moment," Imrahil objected. But before he could say more than that, Andrahar was on him, face to face, and despite Imrahil’s greater height, this time it was Andrahar who stared him down. 

"The Heir to Dol Amroth is in my keeping, and I do not intend to explain to the Prince how I lost his only son! You are riding back to bring help," Andrahar informed him in no uncertain terms. "You will take the road south, stopping at the farmsteads and townsteads long enough to warn them to flee towards the city or arm themselves. And when you reach Dol Amroth, you will warn the city guard, then ride immediately to tell Master Ornendil what has happened."

"But—" 

"This is not a request, esquire," Andrahar said flatly, and there was an authority in his voice that Peloren had not heard before. Imrahil stiffened. Peloren found himself holding his breath as the silence spun out and still, neither Imrahil nor Andrahar moved or spoke. It seemed a small eternity, but at last, Imrahil took a step back and bowed. 

"Yes, sir," he said, softly. Andrahar nodded. And despite the urgency of the situation, a great coil of tension seemed to unwind.

"Go swiftly, then. Take Lightfall with you—he's faster than Bhraina—and switch off at need," Dol Amroth’s youngest knight said. 

"Aye, sir," Imrahil said, sounding still quite subdued. He turned to Peloren, then, and wordlessly exchanged Aldan's sword for Lightfall's reins, swiftly digging long lines out from saddlebags, that he might be able to guide him more easily. Peloren, meanwhile, unsheathed the blade and gave it a practice swing or two, testing the balance. It was perhaps just a little short for him—he had two or three inches on Aldan—but it was well made and would certainly serve.

Imrahil finished tying lead lines just then, and he stood by his horse, hesitating a moment. Andrahar grunted softly, then reached behind himself, hands busy at the back of his belt. Then: "Here," he said, and held out his dagger. "Take this with you."

The Heir shook his head, appalled refusal. "Andra," he protested, "you will need it more than I—"

"If fortune favors us, that shall be true. But on the chance that it does not, I do not wish you to face anyone with a staff and dagger. Your sword-play is more than adequate, and you can fight with a pair of daggers well enough, but your staff work is not that good," he replied. 

"Whereas yours is?" Imrahil demanded.

"It is better than yours," Andrahar countered, and this time did not waste words. He simply took Imrahil's hand and placed the dagger in it. "No time for debate," he said, sharply. "See about those spears, and then go. Peloren—go with him and find out what they have here that will serve to arm the men. I'll have a word with Master Dorhan."

"Aye," Peloren said, and then caught Imrahil's arm, giving him a tug. "Come on, Imri."

The two esquires turned and made for the growing crowd of people gathering about Master Dorhan's house. Already, there were perhaps twenty or thirty villagers—men and women, and not counting children, all hovering about Dorhan's porch, huddled in a frightened group. Peloren felt his heart sink at the sight of them, but he schooled his expression as the two of them approached and Master Dorhan's wife called to them:

"What word, young lords?" 

Imrahil gave Peloren a quick look, then replied: "Two things, Mistress. We're sending a rider for help, and we need every man in this village armed. Peloren here," and here, Imrahil laid a firm hand upon Peloren's shoulder, "will help with the latter task. Sir Andrahar has given me the former, and I will need a couple of fishing spears, if you have them. If not, anything with some reach would do."

"Fishing spears, you say? We have those aplenty," the old woman said, turning to scan the crowd. "Halbar! Run and get yours for the young lord. Hurry now! And what else?"

"Mistress… Falwen, I believe?" Peloren said, stumbling a moment on the name, but she nodded, and he continued: "We are seeking a way to protect the village in case we are right, and there are Corsairs loose in the land. There are two of us with swords, but I want every spear, mattock, staff, and cane you possess—anything that can be used as a weapon. Be swift!"

"We shall. You heard him, lads—be about it!" There was a general clearing out, as the men and older boys dashed off to fulfill the order, while the women began gathering the children together and herding them into Master Dorhan's home. "If there are Corsairs," Falwen said, "there will be men wounded, will there not?"

"Most likely, mistress," Imrahil replied gravely, which was certainly, Peloren thought, the diplomatic thing to say, given the odds.

"Then we should ready ourselves to tend them. Maldis! Dolwen! We'll be within a moment," she told the esquires, and then disappeared with two of the other older women into her house. That left Imrahil and Peloren a little space, and Imrahil touched Peloren's arm, drawing him a bit aside.

"Will you be well?" he asked in an undertone. And when Peloren grimaced, he clarified: "I mean, with you and Andra? You've not been saying much to each other since the city gates."

"There's been little to say to anyone," Peloren countered. But then he shook his head. "This is no time for quarrels, and I know it. Besides," Peloren said, drawing a deep breath and letting it out heavily, "whatever I may think of him, he knows his way around a sword. We'll do well enough together—as well as can be."

"Just hold here. I'll come back as swiftly as I may," Imrahil promised. 

"I know," Peloren murmured, and left unsaid the grim truth that that promise covered over. An uncomfortable silence settled, broken only when Halbar returned and trotted over to them, bearing four light spears.

"Here, my lord," he said, proffering three to Imrahil. "Will that do?"

"No doubt it shall," Imrahil replied, taking them in hand. "My thanks."

"No need for thanks, but I could do with a few more blue tabards, if I might say it, lord," Halbar replied, and then retreated. Imrahil mounted his horse then, transferring the spears to his left hand; and he reached down to Peloren, who clasped arms with him, squeezing tightly. 

"Tell Elya, if it comes to that," Peloren found himself saying, all of a sudden and without quite knowing how, "that it was not his fault. He'll think it is, and you mustn't let him."

"I'll tell him."

"Make him believe it!"

"No fear, Pel—he'll be able to chastise you himself," Imrahil replied, just as if he believed it in truth. 

"Good speed to you."

"Valar guard and guide you both," Imrahil said solemnly. And then, a little hesitantly: "Tell Andra… well, just tell him. You know."

"Aye," Peloren replied softly. "I do."

And with that, he stepped back, and Imrahil urged his horse to a trot, calling to Lightfall, who obeyed, though with a snort and shake his head. His eyes rolled white as the gelding tossed his head, looking back towards Peloren. But he settled then, following Imrahil's lead, while Bhraina nickered, calling after his retreating companions. 

Which left Peloren, still, to carry out his orders, and he turned back to the villagers congregating with an assortment of tools: canes and fishing spears, hammers and awls and whatever knives were to hand in their kitchens. Some of the boys were dashing about finding stones with which to fill belt pouches or other sacks. 

"Will these serve, young lord?" one of the men asked. 

"They shall do," Peloren replied, as he made a quick headcount. "Hear me, all of you! Any man who has had any training or experience with handling weapons, take what you're used to and stand to the right. The rest, to the left. And any lad older than—" he paused a moment, swiftly revising downward his initial thought in light of what he had learned of Haradric slavers in the past three years "—ten, I want him carrying something he can defend himself with."

"They gonna take us?" a young voice piped up worriedly.

"Not while I breathe," Peloren replied, and only hoped he could hold to that—and that he would be breathing two hours hence! "Now, do as I say. Get the rest of the children into the houses at the center here with the women and girls. Move!"

As the villagers began to separate themselves out, Peloren turned away a moment, breathing in deeply, and he closed his eyes against his own fear that pricked now sharply, stabbing through heart and gut, it seemed, and he felt a need, ridiculously, to relieve himself. 

Not now! he told himself sternly, and opened his eyes to see Andrahar watching him, the Southron gazing over Dorhan's shoulder as they spoke. Peloren gave the other a nod. All is well, that gesture said, and Andrahar lifted his chin slightly, acknowledgment or perhaps challenge. 

At length, the conversation ended, and while Dorhan went to join the villagers, Andrahar stalked over to Peloren. "What did he say?" Peloren asked.

"A few things of use. The road we came up is the swiftest way to the village for more than ten miles, and one would need to cut inland to come around from the northeast. If the men being signaled had only just made landfall, they might have been told to explore a bit first, to get a sense for the lie of the land and the best way forward. That might be why we haven't seen anyone yet."

"Maybe they are fishermen," Peloren said, and got a snort. 

"Mayhap. I'll not wager my life or anyone else's on the chance that you're right, though," Andrahar replied, before continuing with serious matters. "We know that someone must have come to shore fairly close to the cove, given that we could see the signal, so I doubt me they shall take the longer road around. If there is anyone out there, whether for good or for ill, we ought to see sign of them soon. 'Tis a pity the cliff overhangs so much of the road—'t'would be almost too easy to defend it otherwise!"

"So," Peloren said, and tipped his head towards the cliff and the path, "we make our stand there?"

"Against so many as a raiding party sports, the road is our only chance to stand against them."

Peloren considered this a moment, then asked: "What if we took the villagers and fled?" And he steeled himself for the charge of cowardice that might well come. Andrahar, however, simply shook his head.

"'Tis open countryside, Dorhan said, and women and children and the old move slowly—if the pirates are as near as we believe, I do not think we should succeed. But more to the point," Andrahar argued, "if we do not stop them here, they will continue onward and ravage some other town or village, where there may be even less hope of withstanding them."

"We may still fail to stop them," Peloren pointed out, and Andrahar grunted.

"We might at that. But 'tis less labor for others, even if we fail. And if we fail, they still cannot do more harm to these people than they would have had we been elsewhere. So," he finished, "we stand, and hope that with the villagers at our backs, it will be enough!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Aldan knows the lower docks areas of Dol Amroth better than I do. For that matter, I'm certain you know some areas of Dol Amroth better than I do, Andra," the Heir said, and gave his friend a significant look.—See Kin-Strife, chapter 7.


	9. All Fall Together

Perhaps a half an hour had passed since the esquires and Andrahar had arrived in the village when the first shadowy shapes were observed upon the beach below. Peloren, who had been drilling some of the villagers who would be serving as spear men, was alerted by one of the younger lads, Galinbor, who came flying back from the cliff's edge, waving frantically.   
  
"Hold a moment," Peloren advised his improvised squad. "What is it, lad?"  
  
"There are men down there," the boy panted, eyes wide. "They have lamps—that's how Bregan saw them!"  
  
"And Bregan has told Mistress Falwen and the women, I take it?" Peloren asked. Galinbor nodded. "Good. Are you armed?"  
  
"Aye." Galinbor gave the pouch slung over one shoulder a pat, and rocks rattled within it.   
  
"Then go take up your post—remember, keep low, do not let them see you standing out against the ridge. We want them to think that we do not know they are coming," Peloren replied. Galinbor nodded, made him what the boy no doubt fondly imagined was a proper salute, and then hurried off, pausing about ten yards from the edge of the cliff to drop to his belly and slither back into place.   
  
That had been one of the first precautions he and Andrahar had imposed: no one was to approach the ridge closer than ten yards without crawling. The odds were poor enough as they stood; the element of surprise was an advantage they absolutely did not wish to surrender, and particularly not through carelessness. Hence no light shone out from the windows of the houses—there were no torches and no lamps, unless shuttered within the recesses of a home.   
  
Once that had been established, the guards had been set: Andrahar had given the older men, who were of limited use against a younger, swifter, and far better trained opponent, the task of watching the perimeter, and put the boys on watch at the cliff-side, both because they were small enough to be less noticeable, but also to keep them occupied. It did no harm after all: there were men watching that approach from the shadows that lay upon the road, so that if the boys grew bored or inattentive, warning would not rely wholly upon them.   
  
With those elementary precautions, and a couple of simple snares laid in the path of would-be assailants, it had been a matter of assessing what sort of resistance the villagers might be able to offer. They had discovered that there were two decent slingers—men with enough skill to be trusted in dangerously close quarters. Otherwise, the men were confined to light spears and whatever edged or blunt weapons they could scavenge, and rocks thrown by hand for any sort of range. Andrahar and Peloren had divided the men into two squads, and Andrahar had taken one group to stand watch with him immediately. The other he had left with Peloren with instructions to walk them through some basic drills appropriate to the confined space in which they hoped to face the enemy.  
  
"Whatever lessons I can give the others, I shall give in position. I do not much care for the notion of being stabbed in the back by accident," the Southron had said, and Peloren could not but agree. Though there was no time to truly teach the men aught but the most basic moves, and there was no one in the village with any real military skill or discipline that could even be polished, Peloren had at least been able to stress the importance of not thrusting while either he or Andrahar were still fighting.  
  
"The road is narrow—no more than two men could fight abreast on it at any time. That leaves little enough room to swing in. If you strike, then though you intend to help us, you might end by accidentally wounding one of us," he explained. "Hold, therefore, until we are both down, and then the next two men must take our places, and so on, for as long as you are able. In the mean time, your task is to hold the light steady when the time comes—and remember that at need, anything can be a weapon, including a lantern, so use it should the time come."  
  
Now he bade his little group to follow, and crept down to confer with Andrahar once more. The cliff had a goodly overhang, which meant that the moon's light cast a shadow upon the road—a stroke of good fortune mixed with the bad for them, in that once upon the road and in the cliff's shadow, they could move more or less freely without fear of being seen. Andrahar had taken advantage of the darkness to station himself and a group of men four long turns down the road, on the logic that distance favored the defenders: the further the Haradrim had to march, the more weary they would be, and conversely, the further from the village the defenders were stationed, the more chances they had to stop the Haradrim or to wound them, making the climb more difficult. Four turns seemed a reasonable distance to make a stand.  
  
Peloren made his way down as swiftly as he dared, every so often darting a glance out at the beach, where there were indeed men gathering.  _Thirty, mayhap as many as the villagers together,_  Peloren estimated. Which was unfortunate: although a smaller number of defenders could hold out against superior numbers if they held the high ground, as well Peloren knew, it helped enormously if the defenders were trained.  _And we have not an abundance of swordsmanship on our side,_  he thought grimly.  
  
Andrahar had six men with him, all single file for the moment, and sitting with their backs to the cliff face. Peloren gave a soft word of greeting, signaled his own five to join their fellows, and then passed silently to the head of the column, where Andrahar crouched, watching the shore intently. He laid a hand upon the Southron's shoulder, and the other glanced up briefly at him as Peloren came to kneel at his side.   
  
"Are they ready above?" Andrahar asked quietly.  
  
"As ready as can be. You?"  
  
"The same." They fell silent for awhile then, watching as the men below began to move, making for the cliff wall.   
  
"Do you think they know where they are going?" Peloren asked abruptly. Beside him, he felt more than saw Andrahar shrug.  
  
"I do not know. I thought before that they might be scouting the area, and perhaps they were, but I wonder now whether I was not mistaken. Why land here, without knowing what they would face?"  
  
"Then you believe that they knew about this place."  
  
"It would make sense. But if so, I do not understand their delay, or why they did not come in closer before sending their men to shore. These walked here—they did not land a boat here."  
  
Peloren thought about this for some little while, then said slowly, "As I recall, the water here is quite shallow over a rocky floor for more than a mile before the seabed drops suddenly. 'Tis what makes it such a good place for crabs and the like. A ship could not come in very close—even a rowboat would find it a difficult task by daylight. Mayhap the shore beyond the cove was a better place to land, or perhaps they thought it best to conceal their men as long as possible."  
  
Andrahar grunted softly. "Perhaps. They are not hiding now."  
  
"I should give them a little more than a quarter hour to reach us once they start to climb, if they do not hurry themselves," Peloren murmured. "Can you tell whether they are Corsairs yet?"  
  
"'Tis too dark for me to see colors, and too far to hear any speech they may have amongst themselves. But if they keep their lanterns lit, we shall know soon enough."  
  
"Mayhap they are Gondorian coast guard," Peloren said after a moment.  
  
"Without mast lights?"  
  
"We should have to report them for that," Peloren observed, in a moment of gallows humor. Rather to his surprise, Andrahar gave a snort of laughter. He said nothing, however, and they fell once more to silent waiting.   
  
Time seemed to creep by, or perhaps it was simply that his heart was beating rather more swiftly than usual, and so Peloren's count was distorted. Or mayhap the enemy—if enemy they were—was simply overly cautious. It was impossible to say, but as the minutes slipped away, Peloren could feel the tension at his back wax, as the men pressed into service grew restless, nervous. But no one spoke, and beside him, Andrahar remained absolutely still as he watched the lanterns progress across the strand and up the long path, hugging the rock face for safety. But other than the faint glow of partly shuttered lanterns, it was too dark to see much once they passed into the cliff's shadow.   
  
Eventually, the faint sound of booted feet upon sandy byways reached Peloren's ears, and he stiffened, reaching out to touch Andrahar's arm. The Southron, in response, laid a hand on his knee in warning and acknowledgment, and then carefully eased to his feet, flattening himself against the cliff face, sword in hand, though not yet drawn. Peloren followed suit, and he made certain to reach back and brush the shoulder of the man behind him, and touch by touch, the warning spread:  _They come! Be ready!_  
  
Light illuminated the rock face as the troupe took the turn below them, and Peloren, squinting, caught a glimpse at last of faces in the dim, half-shuttered lamplight: definitely not Gondorian, in feature or in dress. Not that he could see much of either, but men did not in general favor turbans or headscarves in Gondor, and he knew of no Gondorian unit whose uniform would permit such. Strangely, he felt some relief.  _At least we know now that we shall not be killing our own!_  he thought, as he once again reached back to tap the shoulder of the man behind him: twice this time, the agreed upon signal for the slingers to stand forward and prepare for the first attack.   
  
Andrahar let the enemy come until there were perhaps twenty paces separating them, ere he gave the order: "Now!"   
  
The Haradrim, naturally, froze a moment, consternation rising from their ranks, ere it turned to fear. As little as the close quarters and untried men would permit any elaborate planning, Andrahar and Peloren had nevertheless managed to contrive an opening gambit that had two stages at least. The moment Andrahar had spoken, the first man in line, one of their two slingers, had hurled his rock, then ducked to the ground so the second man could throw, the two trading off shots. The stones were aimed at the lantern-bearers—though they might have thrown blindly into the advancing company, it had been discussed ahead of time that were there any bearing lights, they should be taken first. For as soon as the lamps dropped along with their bearers, the next stage of their attack was launched.   
  
It being a village of fisher-folk, there were fishing nets aplenty, some half again as long as a man was high, all meant to be used by one or two people. At first, Peloren and Andrahar had considered the possibility of throwing nets at their attackers, but Dorhan had pointed out that actually, the ground was fairly sandy everywhere, including upon the trail. Why bother with throwing nets when one might hide one under a layer of sand, and then pull it out from under one's enemies, sending them tumbling? It had been worth a try, at least, and so, having attached two long ropes to the edge of one net, they had done as Dorhan suggested, and left the ropes in the hands of the men in the rearguard.  
  
As soon as the lights dropped, the last six men in the line had yanked upon the ropes, heaving with all their might. And from the cries of alarm, pain and curses, the ploy worked, while the slingers continued to lob their stones by turns. Poor as his Haradric was, Peloren found it was nevertheless up to the task of translating the irate commands to regroup, as well as some of the moaned complaints from men injured in the fall or else by the stones.   
  
"Bucklers to front! Up the road, lads, move it! Now!" the Corsair commander was snarling, and as one, Andrahar and Peloren went for their swords.   
  
"Let's have some light!" Peloren called back to the rearguard, for though it was a risk, neither he nor Andrahar were eager to fight the whole way back up to the village in the dark. For one thing, it was simply harder to know where the enemy was, but for another, they needed to know where they were. For it was apparent to both Andrahar and Peloren that they had the best hope of slowing the enemy, of holding the Corsairs to the path. But even they could not fight forever, which meant either that they fought 'til they fell, or they fought one on two and found some way to spell each other. Despite the risks, they had decided to try for the latter.  
  
"If it does not work, we will know soon enough, and in the end it would amount to the same result," as Andrahar had pointed out.   
  
But that meant they did need light to make the switch, and Peloren breathed a bit more easily as the light from three oil lanterns blazed into being, illuminating the ground before them… and momentarily blinding their enemies. Andrahar, who had assigned himself the lead, wasted no time, nor any opportunity: the moment he saw the lead Corsair flinch from the light, he struck, using his sheath to bat the man's sword safely to one side, while his own blade arced upward beneath the man's buckler, and caught him across the throat. Even as the body fell, Andrahar was already moving to take the next man, who barely had time to cry out ere the Southron's blade found him.   
  
After that, however, their enemies were more prepared, and Peloren watched, every nerve taut with anticipation, as Andrahar met a pair of men, who kept him occupied for a few minutes before he found an opening. Then one of the men reeled back, clutching at his face. The other staggered, off balance, as the flat of Andrahar's blade struck the side of his head, and the Southron shoved him over the edge, just as the next pair of men launched themselves at him.   
  
Peloren stood a little ways back, one eye on Andrahar, the other on the Haradrim—at least insofar as he could see them. It was probably a good thing that they were far enough from the turn in the road that no one could easily retreat to a vantage point to throw knives or sling stones. No one wished to risk killing their own with an ill-timed or poorly-aimed shot—  
  
Or so he thought. Andrahar had managed to take down one of his opponents, and for a split second, as the other man dodged and ducked, Andrahar stood exposed, and in that moment, something flashed through the air.   
  
" _Ware!_ " Peloren cried out in warning, even as Andrahar dodged back, half-pivoting as he dropped his sheath, almost as if to catch the knife, save that even he could not possibly be so cocky as to try that sort of stunt in the midst of battle. But then Peloren saw the knife spin off to the side, deflected but not by any weapon. Still, Andrahar did not seem to flinch, and in the next instant he was back about, quick as ever, to face his opponent, who gave a strangled cry as Andrahar slipped just to one side of his enemy's blow and his own sword scythed up and inward, cutting through flesh to lodge beneath the sternum. With a snarl, the Swan Knight yanked his blade free, and shoved the dying man back into the arms of charging comrades, knocking one of them off-balance. And:  
  
"Peloren!" he shouted.   
  
There was no time to think about it. Obeying that summons, Peloren stepped forward, sliding past Andrahar to take the lead man of the next pair of attackers as the injured Swan Knight retreated. And it was as if he were moving in molasses, for time seemed to slow suddenly, and every movement seemed to stretch out, and he was simply  _not_  going to be quick enough to block that strike. Everything seemed terribly, horribly clear, and he knew, in a flash of insight, that if he survived this night, the face of the man before him would be forever with him, seared into his mind in awful detail, as he watched the other's blade rise and fall—  
  
—and then he heard the  _clang!_  and felt the jarring impact all down his arms, which moved as if with a mind of their own to disengage his own blade and strike. Something wet and hot splashed across his face, and the other man was falling away, eyes ludicrously wide and white, white, white like a ghastly moon. And then he was gone, as if he had never existed, and Peloren ducked under the other man's blow, then launched himself at the Corsair, driving his shoulder into the other's side, ramming him by main force into the cliff-face. He heard the anguished gasp, felt bone crack and give, even as he stabbed downward, hamstringing his opponent. He left the man for Andrahar to finish and turned to face the next Corsair, as everything seemed to fade way. There was nothing beyond the reach of his sword—the world did not exist. He moved in a void without substance, meeting resistance only in the men who joined him… and who then fell away in death. It was strangely freeing, and a sort of heady, fierce exultation coursed through him as his body flowed through motions so long practiced they had not even to be thought of—he knew without words, and to know was to do, and he wrote his deeds in blood.  
  
It was a shock, therefore, when he turned to face the next man, and found no one awaiting him. No one, unless it were the one calling: "Peloren! Peloren, 'tis over! They're retreating—put up!  _Peloren!_ "   
  
Peloren blinked, turned, and then swayed a bit, shaking his head once, twice, trying to clear it. He found he was gasping of a sudden, weak in the knees as the world came rushing back with almost crushing force, and his legs buckled. "Peloren! Look at me—are you hurt?"   
  
"I'm all right," he tried to say. "I'm fine." He was not sure, however, whether he got any of that out, and ended up simply waving a hand at Andrahar, whose face swam into focus.   
  
The Southron was scowling, and keeping a certain cautious distance. "Giver's bones," Andrahar swore, and shocked Peloren all over again for saying it in Westron, which he had never heard the other do before. "Do you hear me?"  
  
"Aye, I hear," he panted, and Andrahar closed his eyes a moment, seeming relieved. Then he opened them again and asked:  
  
"Can you stand?"  
  
"I think so. Just give me a moment," he replied, sucking in a few more lungfuls of air before he pushed himself to his feet. And he looked about, bewildered, at the trail of bodies, then up at the sky, where the moon had yet to appear over the edge of the cliff. "What happened?"  
  
"They retreated. I heard their captain ordering his men to return to the beach. I don't know why," Andrahar replied, sounding both frustrated and puzzled. "As impressive as that performance was, they are still fifteen swordsmen to our two and eleven improvised pike men unless I missed my count." A beat, then: "You're bleeding."  
  
"It is not serious, I think," Peloren replied, then asked: "Do we pursue them?"  
  
At that, Andrahar grimaced slightly, and he glanced downward, looking after the Haradrim, apparently in full flight, and for the first time that night, Peloren saw him waver. But at length:   
  
"No. 'Twould serve no purpose to chase after them now. We will let them go this time."  
  
Despite a certain misgiving, Peloren could muster no objection, for now that the danger had passed, he could feel every bruise, nick, and cut that he had taken in the fight, and he felt drained. Looking once more upon the carnage in his wake, he was gripped with a sense of unreality: granted, he knew he  _was_  responsible for a goodly part of it, it seemed impossible now that he should have managed any of it.  _Master Kendrion just cleared me for light practice. I am not even wearing armor!_  
  
"Peloren?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I said, are you certain you are all right?" Andrahar asked, and Peloren shook himself, glanced once into the other's face, then down, and his gaze fell upon Andrahar's left arm then, which had been hastily bound with the cut-off remains of his sleeve. The bandage was blood-stained.   
  
"Fine. What about you?" he asked, frowning.   
  
"'Tis my off-hand," Andrahar replied, ruthlessly dismissing the injury. Black eyes searched Peloren's face a moment longer, but then he nodded and stepped back, eyeing the bodies now.   
"Well, since it seems we are none of us badly hurt, let us see what we have. Iliman, Turos, start collecting weapons. Porion, collect purses, check for any papers and bring whatever you find up to Master Dorhan's house. Balan, Ciryar, keep a watch on the Corsairs—two hours on, two hours off, rotate through the men; come find us if aught remarkable happens. Everyone else, get some rest while you can."  
  
There was a general murmuring of acknowledgment, and then the men split up to their assigned tasks. Andrahar watched them for a moment, then, seemingly satisfied, he gave Peloren a look and jerked his head in the direction of the village. "Let's go."  
  
"Where?" Peloren asked.  
  
"You said Mistress Falwen was an herbwoman?"   
  
"Aye."  
  
"Then we are going to pay her a visit," Andrahar replied. "Come on."  
  
  
  
Some quarter of an hour later, Peloren sat in Master Dorhan's table, still wincing a little over the cleansing wash Falwen had had her friend, Dolwen, use to tend to his cuts. It reeked of liquor and likely tasted as bad as it felt upon an open wound. He supposed he ought to be grateful none of his injuries was deep enough to require overmuch care beyond that and a light bandage. Andrahar had had to suffer the same physic, but at much greater length and in much greater quantity. Peloren had watched Andrahar's head go down, and his whole body tense, heard the harshness of his breath and seen how the knuckles of his good hand whitened as he gripped the edge of the table and had felt vaguely, sympathetically ill.   
  
Falwen was stitching the wound shut now, which apparently was somewhat less of a torment, though Andrahar remained tense and his expression shuttered. For his part, Peloren still felt drained, and there remained a queasy aftertaste to life; simply watching Andrahar stoically endure Falwen's ministrations threatened to sap what energy remained him.   
  
When at length, Falwen finished, Andrahar was therefore not the only one to let out a sigh of relief. The herbwoman bound the arm up with a clean bandage and gave Andrahar a grandmotherly pat on the cheek. Andrahar flinched, sheer reflex, and Falwen clucked her tongue sympathetically. "Poor dears! I'll just fetch some tea for you both," she said, and whisked away.   
  
With a grunt and grimace, Peloren ran his hands through his hair, and he gazed at Andrahar a long moment ere, prompted by the intent look upon the other's face, he asked: "What is it?"  
  
Andrahar said nothing immediately, simply staring down at the tabletop, though clearly his thoughts were elsewhere. But at length, he replied: "I do not know. There is just something I mislike in all this. Why would they retreat? It makes no sense!"  
  
Peloren, who had been considering the same question, said, after a moment: "It is, as I said, an odd time of year for a raid, and they are far from their usual hunting grounds. They might have come expecting an easy victory, and departed when they realized it would not be."   
  
"I suppose that might be it. Still… I do not like it. I do not  _trust_  it," Andrahar said, scowling, and then he winced a little when an injudicious gesture towards the pile of papers and purses Porion had delivered pulled at injured muscles. "I hope these shall yield something useful, though in truth, I doubt it shall. Their commander escaped, and I doubt a sergeant or a bosun would carry orders on them."  
  
Peloren frowned. "You do not really mean to look through everything Porion found tonight, do you?" he asked.  
  
"As much as I can, aye."  
  
"You're hurt, though."  
  
"'Twas my arm that was hurt, not my eyes or my head, Peloren," Andrahar replied, just a little sharply. "And I should like to keep it to just the arm."  
  
"You truly think they may be back?" Peloren demanded, feeling stomach clench and churn at the notion.  
  
"I do not know. It is simply… there is something that troubles me, as I said," Andrahar said, giving him a one shouldered shrug. "I shan't be able to sleep with it preying upon me, so I might as well read."  
  
Peloren did not respond at once, for Mistress Falwen returned and set two mugs of tea before them. "Drink up," she ordered. "'Twill do you good."  
  
"Our thanks, Mistress," Peloren murmured, and Andrahar inclined his head politely. Once she had withdrawn to her bedroom to give them some privacy to speak, Peloren asked: "How long has it been, do you think, since Imrahil left?"  
  
"Mayhap an hour, or a little longer."  
  
Which meant probably another hour and half before they could expect any help. In the meantime, there were Corsairs, and the prospect of yet another outnumbered battle tonight… He swallowed hard, ran a hand through his hair and down over the back of his neck, pausing a moment to rub the muscles there. Then: "What should I do?"  
  
"Rest if you like. I shall wake you if I find aught."  
  
Peloren scowled. " _Other_  than that."  
  
A shrug. "There is no need for both of us—"  
  
"As if there's any need for  _you_  to do it!" Peloren exploded of a sudden. And when Andrahar's eyes narrowed, he continued, as frayed nerves snapped at last. "Varda's stars, you're wounded, we're all weary, there are Corsairs still on the prowl, and despite what you may think, I  _can_  read Haradric! I'm an esquire, I should be doing something, and for Valar's sake—I just killed men tonight! I—oh!"  
  
With a suddenness that shocked him, nausea welled up and struck, and it was like being punched in the gut: the breath went out of him all in a rush, and the next thing he knew, he was retching violently. Vision swam, and in the midst of the black spots, there were flashes of battle—men screaming and falling, staining him with their blood.  _Ai Valar, I **did**  kill those men!_ he thought sickly, as another wave of nausea washed over and through him. Over the faint buzzing in his ears, he was aware of Falwen's concerned inquiries, and heard Andrahar saying: "—be fine, Mistress, it happens this way sometimes after a battle."   
  
The spasm continued for another minute ere it eased, and Peloren found he could breathe once more, though he was shivering now, chilled. Of a sudden, a cloak, still warm from someone's body, was draped round his shoulders, and he gathered it about himself before looking up to find Andrahar regarding him intently… and with just a hint of pity in his eyes.   
  
"I'm all right," Peloren croaked, then cleared his throat. "'Twas just… everything went a bit queer for a moment." So he said, striving for some dignity as he forced himself to sit up straight, grateful, then, that he had missed supper. Bile coated his tongue, but at least he had not sullied the floor.   
  
"It strikes men like that on occasion," the other agreed without fuss, which somehow but made Peloren feel worse.  
  
"Right. I suppose you would know," he said, a little resentfully. This garnered an exasperated oath, and then:  
  
" _Must_  you  _always_ —" the Southron began heatedly, but came to an abrupt halt. And after a moment's glaring, he very deliberately settled himself across the table once again, leaning back in his chair to cradle his left arm in his right, all the while gazing shrewdly at the esquire. Then:  
  
"What is it you want, here, Peloren? An argument? Outrage? Is there something particular you require so we can get back to what we were talking about before?" Andrahar inquired with pointed sarcasm. That brought a flush to Peloren's cheeks, and he quickly bit his tongue against a too-quick reply. Instead, he snatched up the tea cup and took a cautious sip, and then another when that did not seem to upset his stomach. And:  _Breathe!_  he told himself.  _Think, Pel, you do not need to be an idiot thrice this evening!_  
  
At length, he lowered the tea cup, and said softly: "I'm sorry. I told Imrahil there should be no quarrels between us tonight."  
  
Somewhat to his surprise, this elicited a rather frustrated, disdainful snort, and he lifted his head to stare at the other curiously. In response to that look, Andrahar replied: "So it's Imrahil to whom you're beholden in your regrets, is it? If you wish to apologize to me, Peloren, then apologize to  _me_. Otherwise, we shall get along better without the semblance."  
  
"The… what?"   
  
"Semblance. Seeming. The fatherless gelded pig prefers to know where he stands, not pick through seeming apologies."   
  
Peloren felt his face heat again at that, and the other's sardonic tone did not help. "I never meant it that way!" he protested, temper flaring once more.   
  
Andrahar raised a brow. "Perhaps not," he replied, but there was in that concession not a shred of yielding, nor, as Peloren seethed quietly, any sense that this excuse, whether true or not, held any worth in his eyes.   
  
 _But why should it?_  Peloren thought suddenly.  _Nothing has ever been right between us. What matter, what I mean? It does not truly change things._  The trouble was, he did not know what might, and frustrated, Peloren spread his hands helplessly. "I do not know what to say," he said, and meant not only their present quarrel.  
  
"Then say nothing—help me read, if you will. Otherwise, rest," Andrahar replied, as with ruthless efficiency he reached and tugged a few of the papers across the table and began sorting them out. Peloren bit back on a response, caught on the wrong side of a conversation that was clearly closed now, ambivalence skittering along nerves already strained to nearly their limit. But it seemed evident there was no point in continuing—he had what he had said he wanted, did he not? With but a brief hesitation, Peloren followed Andrahar's lead. He snagged a note and began trying to decipher it—whoever had written it, his penmanship was nothing to praise—as he tried to put tensions behind him, to concentrate on the task at hand.   
  
But some things are not so easily discarded, and after only a few moments, he sighed and set the paper aside.   
  
"Andrahar," he said, and the other looked up from his chore. Peloren bit his lip as black eyes met his, but he did not look away, uncomfortable as it was to be subject to that gaze.  _All term we've side-stepped each other, and that is the best part of anything we have ever managed in four years! I would have this settled finally—if there are still Corsairs to face, I want it settled and done between us._  So:   
  
"I  _don't_  know what to say, truly I do not. Not about any of it. I never thought… I didn't think,  _then_ , of any of this. I don't know what I thought." He paused, then finished: "I do not  _want_  to know anymore what I thought."  
  
Disjointed and confused as this confession was, he meant every word of it, and as he gazed at Andrahar, he willed the other to understand. And it seemed Andrahar tried to—his eyes were narrowed, but Peloren did not sense anger so much as cautious consideration. At length: "So what you are saying…?"  
  
"What I am saying," Peloren said, quietly, "is that I was wrong. And I am sorry for it. For all of it."  
  
So he said, and held his breath, waiting on an answer. Andrahar was silent for a long moment, but finally he nodded slowly. "Then I accept your apology." A beat, then: "Thank you." And he extended his hand. Peloren reached, and they clasped arms, gripping firmly. No smiles—matters were not  _that_  easy between them, and even had they not to worry about Corsairs tonight, there was still the question of whether they even liked each other. But that did not matter—the thing was done, and Peloren sighed softly, relieved.   
  
When they released each other, they fell wordlessly back to their task, but this time, the silence, for once, was bearable.  
  
  
  
They emptied the purses and pouches and a number of small wallets on leather strings, combing through the contents for paper or parchment before returning the other items to their proper places. Much to Peloren's dismay, there was a surprising amount of written material, much of it on smaller sheets that were tightly rolled up or folded. Andrahar, however, had been less concerned.  
  
"Most of them will be prayers," he had said, setting one such aside after but a cursory glance. "Scribes or the keepers of temples and shrines will write them out for petitioners. 'Tis common custom for warriors to carry them."  
  
That had certainly made matters simpler. In the end, there were but a few letters; Peloren swiftly realized he could determine whether or not to bother with skimming them if he paid attention to the writer's gender: letters from wives or betrotheds or mothers were set aside without further investigation. There was one that had seemed more promising at first—a letter to a loved one, where the writer said  _thol_  of himself, not  _t'hil_ , but after a certain amount of confusion, he realized that the bearer of the letter had not been the author of the letter; that this was not a letter home but a keepsake, and that the author of the letter wrote to his absent beloved from some city in Harad…   
  
Belated understanding dawned, and as soon as it did, he refolded the letter and quickly set it aside with the others, feeling a bit flustered. Andrahar had raised a brow at him.  
  
"Nothing?" he inquired.  
  
"Nothing," Peloren confirmed. Then: "What now?"  
  
"Now we wait." Andrahar rose, and wincing a bit, pulled his heavier overtunic on. "I shall return to the cliff side to watch. And if the bodies remain on the path, have a word with the villagers about moving them."  
  
"I can come—"  
  
"Nay, bide here, or find some place to rest. One of us should be ready should aught happen."  
  
"You'll wake me in half an hour, then?" Peloren asked, wanting clarification.   
  
"Half an hour is not very long."  
  
Peloren snorted. "If fortune is kind, in little more than an hour, Imrahil will return with help. Until then, half an hour will do for each of us." Andrahar appeared to consider this, and after a few moments, acquiesced. Peloren pulled the other's cloak from his shoulders and proffered it. "You'll be wanting this more than I."  
  
The Southron silently accepted it back. "Get some rest," he repeated, and then departed.   
  
"Lord Peloren?" Peloren turned then to see Falwen standing in the doorway to her chambers. She gestured to the departing knight, and said, a little apologetically, "I could not but overhear. If you would like to have a bed to rest on, Dorhan and I shan't rest 'til this bad business is done with. I don't know that I could, even!"  
  
"That is very kind of you, Mistress, but—" Peloren gestured to himself, to the still damp bloodstains "—I fear I should utterly ruin your sheets as I am."  
  
"Water for washing is one thing we do not lack," the old woman replied, with a slight smile. "But as you will. If you simply wish a quiet place, however, you could lie down within and none would disturb you, unless you were needed." And when he hesitated, she added: "Please, lord, we are all beholden to you, and if it comes to a fight, we should all feel safer knowing one of you was rested."  
  
Which was surely blackmail, but Peloren did not possess the will to resist. He made her a courtly bow that made her blush, and replied, "Then I thank you for all your courtesy and care, Mistress. Please wake me should word come from Andrahar."  
  
  
  
In the end, he did not use the bed. The Swan Knights' sergeants had instilled a lasting horror of an untidy chamber, and so he simply curled up on the straw mat at the foot of the bed and pulled his own cloak over himself. And he did managed to sleep a little, if lightly, so that when the banging on the door began, he was quick to rouse.   
  
 _Aiya!_  He winced, for even in that brief space of time, muscles had stiffened, and he cracked his neck as he rose, and then his back, before answering the summons. Mistress Falwen stood there, her expression taut but determined, though the fear shone clearly in her eyes. "They've returned, I take it?" he asked her.  
  
"Aye. Come quickly!"  
  
Peloren quickly grabbed Aldan's sword off the floor and checked his dagger, making for the cottage door as he did so. "Thank you, Mistress," he told her. "See to your folk!"  
  
With that, he hurried without, where the villagers were gathering. The men stood along the ridge, spears and appropriated swords to hand, while the women gathered in a clot before Dorhan's door, waiting on news. Peloren took a moment to find Andrahar, then set out at a trot to join him. And he frowned, as he glanced up at the moon riding high overhead.   
  
"How long did you let me sleep?" he demanded without preamble when he had reached the other.   
  
Dol Amroth's youngest knight glanced sideways at him and said, by way of greeting, "Long enough that it may do you some good. But never mind that." He nodded to the shore below. "They look to be coming on more swiftly than before."  
  
"Why is that, do you think?" Peloren asked, gazing down at the little knot of men moving once more up the beach.  
  
"I do not know." A pause, then: "I think we may assume they shall not fall for our tricks again."  
  
"No nets, then?"  
  
"I do not believe it would work a second time. 'Tis not hard to counter if one knows to expect it."  
  
"More's the pity," Peloren sighed. Andrahar tipped his head slightly to one side and made one of his little gestures, and though often Peloren was uncertain of their meaning, this one he understood:  _Such is fate!_  Indeed:  
  
"Fortune delivers all men to their destiny," the Southron said aloud, and jerked his head in the direction of the path. "Let us meet it as best we may, therefore."  
  
  
  
They left the older men and boys arrayed near the top of the road with their rocks and knives and the like, while the women got the children under cover once again and prepared their own defenses. Once more, Andrahar and Peloren led their little band of defenders down the path. This time, however, they decided simply to keep moving until they met up with the enemy, for they desired at least a little unpredictability, and also that the Corsairs should be made to suffer the land as much as possible. There was nothing like having a long climb still ahead of one after a fight, after all.   
  
There was little in the way of change to their tactics—there were few options, after all, and with men who had never drilled together and who were, in any case, untrained, neither Andrahar nor Peloren thought it good to risk improvising overmuch, other than to designate one man a runner.   
  
"As soon as we are forced to begin retreating in earnest," Andrahar told Iliman, "run to warn the others to expect the Corsairs. Make your stand with them."  
  
Beyond that, the only change in their ranks was in the lead: despite dread, Peloren insisted on taking it. "I know the road a little better than you, at least," he argued, "and that arm will slow you down."  
  
"We shall see," had been Andrahar's response, as he hefted a dagger he had acquired from what remained of the pile of weapons Iliman and Turos had collected. But he had followed Peloren down without protest.   
  
The moon was beginning to show itself over the edge of the cliff, casting a faint light upon the way as they made their descent. They had come a little more than halfway to the bottom, when Peloren held up a hand, signaling a halt. For he could hear others moving close at hand, just a little ways below. Indeed, barely a minute later, they appeared as they came around the bend and began to climb.   
  
But the moonlight did not help only the Gondorians: the Haradrim, too, could see now, and at the sight of them, a cry went up—but not a war cry. 'Twas no command or insult, but the most unexpected word of all: even as Peloren raised his sword, the commander of the Corsairs raised his hand, empty palm turned outward, and in heavily accented Westron called out:  
  
"Parley!"


	10. Fortune's Reversals

"Parley, I cry you!"   
  
A stunned silence greeted this request. Peloren stared at the Corsair commander, then darted a hesitant glance back at Andrahar, ere returning his gaze to his opponent, unwilling to take his eyes from him overlong.   
  
He felt Andrahar draw near, and murmur: "Parley must be answered—you are my herald, but leave my name silent or I fear all wagers are lost. Go!"  
  
Between disbelief and hope, Peloren obeyed, and strove to master himself, to carry himself as his father had taught him, as a lord and knight ought to, though every muscle was tense lest this be some trick. But Andrahar was right: a request for parley was  _always_  accepted. It was the one rule that was never violated between North and South, West and East. The enemy must at least be heard, and must always receive an answer, ere the truce ended, at which point all was fair game once again. A difficult balance, and a fragile one, but even orcs tended to respect it, though a captain was a fool who went forth himself to receive an answer from them.   
  
The Corsair commander met him halfway, and they stood for a moment in silent, squinting appraisal of each other, there in the gap between their companies. The commander was older than Peloren had expected, the moonlight showing a deeply lined brow and shadowed hints of crow's feet as he stared, narrow-eyed, at Peloren, and his hair showed more silver than black. An old sailor—an old hand, presumably, on such raids, and Peloren's brow knit in puzzlement, thinking over the strange tactics of the evening. But he had not come to ask after that; he had come to answer the man, and so he said:  
  
"I am Lord Peloren. I speak for my commander. Who are you, and what would you say, sir?"  
  
"Bhasat, son of Benhar of Umbar. The third mate of  _Hranam_ , I am. You speak Haradric?"  
  
"A little," Peloren replied, switching tongues, and he hoped Andrahar was listening well.   
  
"That is good, for we have but little Westron," Bhasat replied, falling easily back into his native speech. The Southron cocked his head slightly, eyeing Peloren up and down once more, ere he observed: "You bear the mark of the Swan-lord."  
  
"We serve the Prince of Dol Amroth," Peloren affirmed.  
  
"Swan Knights?"  
  
It seemed best not to complicate matters by attempting to explain his own status, not to mention that it was never a good idea to admit a weakness to an enemy, and so Peloren said simply: "Yes." The Corsair grunted, but strangely seemed pleased by this.   
  
"So I thought! I have faced your brothers before, you see. I know their mettle, unlike our late commander."  
  
"I… see." Peloren paused, uncertain how else to respond. This conversation was swiftly spiraling away from anything Peloren might have thought would be at issue. To hear the man, and watch him as he stood, seemingly at ease, before Peloren, they might have met in a tavern and be sharing a friendly conversation. Thus: "May I ask, honored sir, why it is that you wish to speak of this?"  
  
"You may. Mostly because we should thank you—you rid us of one we cared little for, and so did us a favor, though of course you did not know this. Our late commander and our captain, you see," Bhasat explained, "were and are newly come to Harad's service—both young, perhaps as young as you, perhaps younger. You will forgive me if I pay you less respect than your years deserve, 'tis hard for us to tell ages among the Westmen even under a broad sun."   
  
There came a pause; it seemed this actually required an answer, and so Peloren, though still trying to sort through what was being said, replied swiftly, "Of course."  
  
The Corsair inclined his head slightly. "Thank you. Such men, especially when young, are not often inclined to heed the wisdom of age, especially when age is more humbly born. 'Tis the way of things, and were the commander still with us, I should not speak. But since he is no more among us, naught prevents courtesy among those whom misfortune puts together."  
  
"And I thank you for your courtesy," Peloren said, since it seemed that could hardly do any harm. Then, more cautiously: "I fear, though, that I do not yet understand. Whom misfortune puts together?"  
  
"Aye. We did not wish to undertake this mission when not all was in place, but young commanders and captains are eager for glory. They sent us anyway, heedless of well-founded warnings, and here we are, much lessened in number and with no good chance of succeeding in the task set us, and our honor all at risk now. You slew one hothead, and we are glad of it, though 'twas perhaps a greater honor than he deserved."  
  
 _What **is**  this about?_ a bewildered Peloren wondered, struggling to understand it all. It was quite evident to Peloren that he was missing something in all this strange speech, clothed in courtesy and manners, and inwardly he cursed the fact that Andrahar had not come to speak in his stead.  _He might make some sense of this, at least!_  he thought.   
  
"Please accept my apologies, Master Bhasat," Peloren said finally, after considering and rejecting a few responses as simply too complicated for him to carry off. "But I am afraid I still cannot understand what you mean to tell me—what I should tell my commander, that is. I shall of course bring him your thanks, if you wish, but… was there something else I should say to him?"  
  
At this, the Southron chuckled softly. "Let me say it then in words you will understand, perhaps," Bhasat replied, changing once more to Westron. "You have killed our commander, and this is good. But our orders still have us, and more than once now—we must go on. There is no welcome back for us."  
  
"But why?" Peloren asked.   
  
"For several reasons, but in most: our ship has gone from us with the orders to continue that what we have begun."  
  
"Your ship left you? But…" Peloren paused, and eyed the man closely, feeling alarm beginning to rise. "Forgive me, but you seem to say you intend to fight this battle regardless. Why parley, then?"  
  
"In most, to thank you, as I said. But also to know you, who you are—two Swan Knights, I think, and some others. A strange gathering. Yet a worthy way to end for some of us. Do not disappoint us, therefore," the Southron said.  
  
"You wish me to tell my commander we should not disappoint you?" Peloren asked, incredulously.  
  
At that, Bhasat laughed, and there was a predatory edge to his smile now. "Nay, honored lord, he has heard us. No need he has of a message. And that is good, for you are not a messenger!"  
  
Steel rang as Bhasat swept out his sword, and Peloren barely dodged in time. He had no time to clear his sword, and only just enough time to get a dagger to hand and up to block the back-swing, but the force of the blow drove him back against the cliff wall, knocking the breath from him. Peloren gasped in pain, but ere he could do aught, ere even he could try to save himself, Bhasat gasped as well, and the man collapsed, dragging him down. For a moment, blind panic seized Peloren as he struggled under the dead weight, expecting at any moment to feel the bite of a blade or to be crushed as the Haradrim mobbed forward, but it did not happen.   
  
" _Amrothu n'haimar!_ " Which ought to make absolutely no sense, and perhaps it gave their enemies pause to hear a Haradric battle cry from out of a Swan Knight's mouth. Whether or not it did, of a sudden, Andrahar was there, and as Peloren clawed his way out from beneath his foe, he noticed the precisely placed dagger sticking out from under Bhasat's arm: Andrahar had thrown true; his blade had sunk into the man's armpit, just above the stiff leather cuirass and Bhasat groaned in agony, blood trickling from his mouth. Peloren spared him a last, uncomprehending look, and then drove his own knife home, ending the other's misery, ere he dragged his sword free and rose to rejoin the fray.   
  
For despite the fact that Andrahar had managed to kill two already, he could not block well with the dagger in his left hand, and he was fighting mostly defensively at the moment, trying simply to keep his opponents at bay, deflecting and dodging strikes from the left as best he could.   
  
With a snarl, and a cry of, "Amroth!", Peloren fell in at his side.   
  
It was different, though, from the first fight—different, and more difficult. Before, he had been free to swing, having only to mind the cliff wall and his opponents' blades. But fighting side by side, he had now to know where Andrahar was, to avoid hitting him, to mind the narrow space and pull his strikes, so as not to let momentum take them too wide. And this time, too, he was tired already. His back and head ached from the bruising he had just received, his breath still felt short, and though his body kept on about the deadly business of war, frenzy did not rule this fight. This time, friction held harsh, abrasive sway.   
  
Nor did the situation improve. Unarmored as they were, there was nothing to cushion even a glancing blow, no room for any sort of close call. Whatever touched would cut if it were edged; whatever landed would bruise if it were blunt. Injured already and facing enemies who did not seek to live the night but only to destroy before death claimed them, they could not hold position, and had simply to back their way up the path, dodging as often as they could that they not utterly spend themselves blocking.   
  
Their enemies began to take them in shifts, even as they had planned to do during the first assault. As one man tired, he would dodge back, and another would leap to take his place. Sometimes, Peloren or Andrahar would be able to take advantage of that momentary break in formation, and a man would fall. But it did not happen regularly. They had to cover themselves; they had to cover each other; and most especially they had to cover the villagers as long as possible. Arms went from weary to numb to a paradoxically achy numbness that held the benefits of neither feeling nor unfeeling, yet seemed to combine the worst aspects of both.   
  
Andrahar had thrown one more dagger and was down to his last one by the time they had backed perhaps thirty feet and were reaching a bend in the road. The villagers took it first, and for a brief moment, there was relief for the two warriors, for it let their support stab downward at the remaining Corsairs. Andrahar's opponent reeled out of line, clutching at his eye, and another man seemed to be injured as well, but almost as soon as this new attack began, the Corsairs responded: a couple of men toward the rear of the company grabbed the edges of the path above and pulled themselves up to the next level. One of the villagers cried out and went down, clutching the leg that a Corsair blade had found, and men cried out in alarm, turning swiftly to face this threat, but slender fishing spears could not withstand blows from Haradric scimitars.   
  
With an oath, Andrahar shoved his opponent back and disengaged, calling to Peloren, "Hold them!"  
  
"Aye! Go!" Peloren snarled, even as he cut at Andrahar's opponent. The young knight shoved his way past the villagers, who were only too glad to let him by, to take on the three men who had clambered up to the slope above. A few moments later, a body came tumbling over the edge and Peloren saw two of the rearguard go down beneath it, and spears were thrust down after them. But the Haradrim were not the only victims. Peloren had just blocked a blow, and was pressing forward when, without warning, what felt like fire burned all down his back, and then a weight slammed into him, pitching him forward to the earth, crushingly heavy, and  _pain pain PAIN—!  
  
Silence._  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
There was sound in the darkness, a voice that was naggingly familiar. But there was also pain, and he writhed, fearful suddenly, struggling feebly against constraining hands, as unintelligible words assaulted him. Weariness, though, swiftly leeched all strength from him, and consciousness as well and he surrendered to the blackness with but a passing regret.   
  
How long he floated in oblivion, he did not know. But when next Peloren stirred, and managed by dint of sheer effort to crack an eye open, he thought it must have been long indeed. He  _ached_ ; his head throbbed, and one eye in particular felt hot and puffy. His back burned still, and a whimper escaped him.   
  
Clothing rustled somewhere nearby, and a hiss of sharply indrawn breath sounded. A shadow fell upon him, as someone passed between him and the lantern that stood upon a rough, wooden stand. "Pel?" came the anxious, hopeful voice—a voice he had never thought to hear again even before he went to face the Corsairs. A hand closed over one of his, shook gently. "Pel? Are you awake?"  
  
"Elya?" Peloren managed to croak, and swallowed against the hoarse soreness of his throat. He blinked, then blinked again and squinted, 'til Elethil's face came into focus, and he said the first thing that came to mind, his words slurring: "Am I dead, then?"  
  
"You look it!" Elethil exclaimed, but then sighed, and gave him a hesitant, lop-sided smile. "But no, you're still here."  
  
"But… you… I thought—!"   
  
"I know. They told me," Elethil replied, somberly, and squeezed his hand, giving him an anguished look. "I'm so sorry, Pel!"  
  
" _Where have you been?!_ " Peloren demanded, struggling to sit up, but Elethil was quick to press him down.   
  
"Just lie still! Master Kendrion said you were not to trouble yourself for anything," Elethil said swiftly. "Do you want for anything? Water, mayhap?"  
  
"I want to know where you were!" Peloren insisted through gritted teeth, for his head hurt.  
  
"I rode out into the hills beyond Dol Amroth. I ended up on Badhon for awhile, actually, and… I don't know exactly what I was thinking. I just…" He paused a moment, then continued slowly, voice low, "I thought I should be leaving. But I did not know where to go. I don't want to serve Golasgil, or Valyon or any of them, but since Father will not have me back—"  
  
"What?" Peloren interrupted, confused. "What do you mean, your father wouldn't have you back?"  
  
"Just that. I thought of going home for Yule this year, you know," Elethil said quietly. "To get away from the others. I thought it could not be worse, and when you are the fifth child of six, 'tis not so hard to stay quiet and out of sight. I wrote Father about it."  
  
"And?" Peloren asked, when the other paused.   
  
"He said I had not come home last year, and that I should not bother, unless I came home with a white belt. That there wasn't any use for me otherwise, if I couldn't find it in me to serve well—be a knight, like my brothers." Elethil ducked his head as his voice grew brittle. "Caldor's no place for the useless."  
  
"Elya… that's—" Peloren stopped, appalled and at a loss for words. Between the headache and exhaustion, they were not coming easily. Finally, he settled simply for asking: "You never said anything to me—why?"  
  
"I  _meant_  to tell you," Elethil said, with painful earnestness. "At Yule. But things happened, and… they happened. And I started to think that maybe it was better you did not know—why should we both suffer?"  
  
That at least had a simple answer, and vehemence lent him clarity as Peloren replied: "Because I am your  _friend_ , Elethil!"  
  
At that, Elethil lowered his eyes and looked away quickly. And: "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice tight. "I never thought…"  
  
Peloren sighed softly, and with an effort, lifted a hand to touch the other's knee. And when Elethil, after a moment, hesitantly looked back at him, he smiled a little, then prompted: "So—you thought you should be leaving. And so, what? You cleaned your room?"  
  
"Thank you," Elethil murmured, gratefully, and laid his hand over Peloren's ere he took up the tale again. "Aye, I turned all my things out—emptied the clothespress and the shelves, took everything off the desk, changed shirts and tunics, and put all of it in my trunk. Got everything ready." He paused, and the look he gave Peloren was at once fearful and frightening, and the next words made Peloren's stomach clench. "For I  _was_  leaving, I thought, one way or another—but with no place to go… I thought… I  _did_  think—we are not supposed to fear death."  
  
He paused, while Peloren stared at him in horror, then continued quietly: "But I thought I should not bother anyone about it. I had been enough bother. So I left. I thought I should go somewhere else, since I was not wanted in Dol Amroth. But I did not want to take Greywind, either—if I could not go home, I wanted nothing to do with anything from Caldor, and Father gave him to me. He's a good horse—Father could use him again, so I left him with my things to go home, and took one of the spare horses instead. But then I still did not know where to go."   
  
"So you went to Badhon," Peloren murmured.   
  
"I ended up there," Elethil sighed. "I cannot say I meant to go there, I just  _was_  there, after a time. And I sat on the summit I do not know how long, waiting 'til it seemed right… " Abruptly, Elethil shook his head. "No," he said, voice hardening, "That is not true. I was not waiting, I just kept staring out and thinking how I liked it there. I did not want to spoil it."  
  
"You did not… just because you thought the view was pretty?" Peloren demanded, uncomprehending.  
  
Elethil bowed his head. "Yes. And no. I did not do it, because—" and here, he gave a soft, unhappy laugh "—because at bottom, I was too much afraid! There is the plain truth of it—nothing happened, because I was too much a coward for it. Some knight I should have made! Too afraid of life to live it, but too fearful of death to risk that either! In the end, it was not even shame that moved me: it got dark, and I thought I should take the poor horse back at least. So I left and went back."  
  
A heavy silence fell, and Peloren shut his eyes, feeling more than a little dizzy.  _That close! Valar!_  And he did not know what to feel—rage, that Elethil should have gone so far and said nothing, or fear, that he might yet go further than even this. One thing only was certain, and that was shame.  _For I should have known. I should have known—I **did**  know, and it was blind luck only he did not go through with it._ Blind luck, or something else mayhap, as he opened his eyes, and saw Elethil gazing down at him, eyes haunted, it seemed, with the dread of a bad year's furtherance. It was that, perhaps, that cooled his wrath, and kindled something a great deal more tender in its place. For whatever else he might be, was not Elethil his dearest friend?   
  
And so he laced his fingers in with Elethil's, and squeezed, and said, "'Twas fear made you go to Badhon, Elya. But it did not bring you down from there. That was something else."  
  
"How can you say that?" Elethil demanded hoarsely.   
  
"Because," Peloren said simply, "I  _am_  your friend. And I know you." He paused, watching as something awful twisted in the other's face—twisted, and then suddenly broke, as Elethil drew an unsteady breath and blinked hard, turning away to wipe at his eyes with a sleeve. Peloren felt a sympathetic ache in his own breast, and murmured, "I'm sorry. I should have seen—"  
  
"'Tis all right," Elethil cut him off, and he cleared his throat. Blotting once more at his eyes, he looked back at his friend, and he seemed at least a little calmer then. And he pressed Peloren's hand back, essayed a smile as he husked, "Thank you."  
  
For a time, they simply sat thus, hand in hand, not speaking, while Peloren lay with his eyes closed against the steady, dull throb of his head. But at length, he urged, "What happened then? After you went back?"  
  
"Well," Elethil said slowly, and sighed, "when I returned, I found that everyone was out looking for me. 'Twas Aldan I met up with, and he told me that he, Teilin, and Ambor had gone to tell the masters. Once he realized I wasn't… well, you know, going to do anything rash, Aldan nearly took my head off. He probably would have if Master Ornendil hadn't wanted a word." Elethil paused a moment, his cheeks red, and he gave Peloren a sidelong look. "He and Théorwyn and Illian will want to speak with you, too, as soon as you are well enough for it. I, ah… they know everything now," he said hurriedly, and shrugged; "So no need to stay silent on my behalf."   
  
"Everything?" Elethil nodded, seeming quite subdued indeed. Peloren closed his eyes again and for a time, thought of nothing at all. But at length: "How came you here?"  
  
"Truthfully, I am not quite certain myself. I was still with the masters when Imrahil came bursting in with a pair of knights with the news. I guess the masters had sent a few men after all of you, and when Imrahil met them, they accompanied him back. In any case, as soon as they heard what was happening, the masters went to go and gather men to ride with them. I just followed." Elethil shrugged once more. "Either Master Ornendil thought it fitting I should come and so did not stop me or else he did not wish to bother arguing when there were Corsairs on the loose and you and Andrahar out here with naught but a handful of villagers for help." He hesitated, then added, in a bit of a rush, "And maybe he thought, too, that if you were hurt or worse, he would rather have me where he could watch me. I do not know."  
  
"And… is Andrahar…?" Peloren trailed off, afraid to ask.  
  
"He's alive," Elethil assured him quickly. "A mess, and he's got a hole in his arm, but he walked back up the road on his own."  
  
"The villagers?"  
  
Elethil shook his head. "That I do not know, I fear. There were some wounded at least, but then they brought you up, and..." He shrugged.   
  
Peloren grunted and shut his eyes again a moment, before reopening them to gaze about at his surroundings, all while trying not to move his aching head. "Master Dorhan's and Mistress Falwen's room," he murmured after a moment, forcing himself to speak slowly and clearly. And as he listened to the wind, and the voices that sounded beyond the walls, he frowned. "Just how many came with you?"  
  
"Sixty, I think. Master Ornendil brought half a company, and Master Théorwyn brought another thirty men to sweep the area, to make certain there were no roving bands of Corsairs preying upon the farms and villages."  
  
 _Ninety men… nearly a full company!_  Peloren groaned. "Master Ornendil'll kill us!"  
  
"If anyone, I may kill Andrahar," came a new voice, and Peloren cringed, but then struggled to sit up. Elethil, however, quickly laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder, even as he rose to make the Armsmaster a salute, which Ornendil waved off impatiently. The Armsmaster was in full battle gear still, save for the helm, and a quite intimidating figure he cut in the midst of a humble cotter's home as he came to stand over Peloren. "Knights are not nursemaids," he continued, "and he ought to have better sense than to let Imrahil go off on one of his flights of fancy like that. Especially without telling anyone, and with you in tow!" So he said, and scowled so fiercely that Peloren felt compelled to say:  
  
"Do not blame Andrahar or Imrahil overmuch, sir." And when Ornendil raised a brow, he explained: "'Twas my fault. Andrahar said we should tell you, not go off." He paused, closing his eyes wearily for a brief span, before forcing himself to continue: "I wouldn't hear it, not even from Imrahil. And when we wouldn't be stayed, he came with us, for Imri's sake. We never thought to find trouble. Not this sort. But he got Imrahil out of it. Saved my life, too."  
  
Ornendil stared at him a moment, then glanced at Elethil. "Out," he said shortly, and Elethil, after but a brief and anxious look for Peloren, made haste to absent himself, closing the door behind him.   
  
The Armsmaster sighed then, and removed his gauntlets, tucking them into his belt. Then he carefully settled upon the stool Elethil had been occupying. It creaked rather alarmingly beneath his weight, but he ignored it, reaching instead to lay a hand to the side of Peloren's face. Peloren gently chewed the tip of his tongue as Ornendil's fingers brushed lightly along the edges of bruises ere being withdrawn.  
  
"Master Kendrion says you are concussed and subject to confusion because of it," he said then, in a less acerbic tone. "We shall speak later of responsibility in this and other matters, therefore."  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Peloren murmured softly, though in point of fact, he rather wished to get it all over with, not to put off misery 'til the morrow when he could suffer it all at once today and have it done with. But one under judgment could make few demands, and so he resigned himself to anxious days ahead…  
  
"Peloren." The Armsmaster's sharp call made him start, and he blinked, realizing his eyes had closed without him telling them to do so. He glanced up at the other once more, and Ornendil raised a brow at him. "Are you with me lad? Should I fetch Kendrion?"  
  
"'Tis just that I’m tired, sir," Peloren said after a moment. At that, the Armsmaster seemed to relax a little and he nodded.   
  
"Well," he said, and this time his voice was gentle and a little wry, "that is certainly understandable. You put up quite the fight, Andrahar said, and having seen your back and face, I can believe it."  
  
"But not enough of one," Peloren said softly, feeling guilt sting once more. "Not everybody who came with us came back, did they, sir?"  
  
"There were some casualties among the villagers, yes," Ornendil confirmed. Then: "Peloren, 'tis a rare and fortunate commander who fights a serious battle and loses no one. Do not blame yourself for the deaths of a few—had you not been here, all of the villagers might have lost their lives, or at best been made slaves."  
  
"But that is not true! We should not have been able to do it," Peloren protested. "The Corsairs should have killed us! And it would not even have helped Elethil!"  
  
"I will grant you that there was a more than fair amount of luck and strange circumstance involved," the Armsmaster said patiently. "And make no mistake, neither I nor Valandil nor the Prince will condone the fact of your being here under the circumstances: if you thought Elethil truly were desperate, you should have told us immediately, no matter how late it might have seemed for such intervention, and no matter what other costs there might have been. That he thankfully in the end had not the heart for such an act changes nothing. You panicked, and in your panic, you were willing to risk Elethil's life, so far as you knew, rather than trust your fellows to do right by him and to help you. That should not have happened, and it cannot happen again."  
  
Peloren swallowed hard at that, for he could not deny it, and he did not wish to, yet he did not know how to explain himself, either.  _For I cannot. What excuse could I make for myself?_  Certainly none that would have done aught to ease his conscience had anything happened to Elethil, and so he only whispered, "I am sorry, sir, to have failed so!"   
  
"I know that you are.  _But_ ," the Armsmaster said, "I doubt me that you would have, had you been given any good reason to trust us in the first place."   
  
And when Peloren gave him a startled look, Ornendil gave him a thin smile in return, and said, "As I said, we shall speak of those matters later, when you are somewhat more recovered and when the Prince is present to hear it all. But for your peace of mind, what I came here to tell you is simply this: where an incident this spectacular occurs, it may happen at your hands, but 'tis on my watch, and I may not disown that. So: rest, recover, and do not worry overmuch, either for yourself or for your friends, or for the villagers, who despite their grief for their dead think well enough of you and Andrahar that they've not ceased since we arrived to tell every Swan Knight they encounter what you did for them."  
  
And while Peloren gaped slightly at him, Ornendil rose and said, "Get some rest, lad. I'll send Elethil in to sit with you again."   
  
But ere he could, Peloren stopped him, asking anxiously, "Sir?" And when the Armsmaster raised a brow at him, continued: "Does that mean that nothing will happen to Elethil, sir?"  
  
At that, the older man sighed softly. "That is a question for later. But we shall see to him until then, and in his favor, he is still here and needed no prompting to walk home to us. So—we shall see. For now, you may at least be reassured that he shall suffer no punishment. There has been enough of that."  
  
With that, Ornendil rose and made his way out, calling softly for Elethil, who reappeared within moments and hurried to Peloren's side.   
  
"Are you all right?" he asked, worriedly.  
  
Peloren did not respond immediately. Instead, he lay silently, trying to decide how he was. The night had been so anxious, so filled with frenzied feeling, the manic heights of elation caught hard between the depths of horror and the numbing certainty of death, it exhausted him even to think of it now. Everything felt strangely distant at the moment, as if in the absence of acuity, nothing were quite real, as if everything were reduced to the flat, dull ache that suffused him. And so:  
  
"I do not know." A pause, then softly: "Don't go anywhere tonight, will you, Elya?"  
  
"I won't," Elethil promised, and reached to take his hand once more. Pel gave it a tired squeeze and then yawned.   
  
"Good," he murmured, as he let his eyes close. And assured of his friend's presence, he slipped easily into a dreamless sleep.  
  


~0~

  
  
Meanwhile, Ornendil stepped out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, which had become the impromptu command center of the flock of Swan Knights that had descended upon the village.  _Not for much longer, I hope,_  he thought. The night was growing late indeed, and was more than half over already, and Ornendil intended to take the bulk of their company and depart in the morning, leaving a small number to patrol, and to bring Peloren and Andrahar back with Kendrion.   
  
For the danger seemed to have passed, but even had it not, a few Swan Knights, with the help of the marines and navy, could most likely handle matters, he thought, as he eyed the commander of the marines that had come ashore just recently. Look outs had spied him and his men on the beach perhaps an hour after the Swan Knights had arrived at the village, and the newcomers had been swiftly brought before Ornendil.   
  
"Commander Albarion, off the  _Telmar_ , Captain. Glad we are to find you here," the commander had said when presented. "We feared to find Corsairs."  
  
"You knew of them?" Ornendil had asked, surprised.  
  
"Aye. 'Tis quite the tale, though it seems we missed the last chapter...?" Ornendil had briefed him, then, giving the short version of what he had heard from Andrahar and others. The commander had seemed quite interested indeed, and had petitioned both Ornendil and Kendrion for permission to speak with Andrahar himself.   
  
" _If_  he is awake and  _if_  he feels up to it, you may speak with him for a brief while. But a brief while only, Commander; I shall accompany you, for I do want him to get some rest this night, if he has not already," Kendrion had warned. Ornendil had raised no objection, intent upon having a word with Peloren if he could get it—a word that would no doubt come easier if Kendrion were not hovering over Peloren like a pelican over her brood. They had parted, then, with Ornendil inviting the commander to meet him in Dorhan's kitchen once he was done, to hear the apparently more far-flung beginnings of this tale.  
  
Now Commander Albarion beckoned Ornendil to join him over a map that he had spread upon Mistress Falwen's table. "What have you, Albarion? You said you could add to the tale of tonight?" he asked.  
  
"Aye, I believe so, having spoken to your young Southron," Albarion said.  
  
"His name is Andrahar," Ornendil said, with just a touch of frost. The commander heard it, paused a moment, and then inclined his head.  
  
"Of course, my apologies.  _Sir_  Andrahar was kind enough to recount in more detail what passed in parley between the Corsair commander and your other young knight—"  
  
"Esquire Peloren."  
  
"Esquire Peloren," Albarion corrected, without missing a beat, "and to recall, as best he could, the signal lights that he observed. 'Tis difficult—he did not see all of them, and what he saw, he did not understand, of course. What escapes understanding more easily slips from memory, but given what he has said, I think we can reconstruct matters."  
  
Albarion indicated a set of inked in black lines that crisscrossed the sea and the bay. "Sea lanes," he explained, and then indicated chalked in white ones: "Pirate routes. They change from time to time, so we don't bother with permanent marks. But some are regular. See here? These three lines, stretching from Tolfalas to the Faldor islands, and down to Port Inkilon and back, form the Red Triangle: most of the shipping we lose, we lose here. You’d think it would be around Hurrhabi, but the Haradrim are careful to keep things quiet about Umbar. ‘Tis a different sort of snare there." The commander waved a hand dismissively, then continued:   
  
"In any event, lately, we've been seeing changes: more raids that attack the coasts, rather than the ships themselves, but there hasn't been a drop in shipping raids in the Red Triangle, either. More, they've been striking earlier in the season and continuing 'til later in the year. That suggests we are dealing with more ships than in prior years. Indeed, we've been counting, and there are more Corsairs on the water. To crew an increase of ships of the size we've been seeing, the Haradrim cannot simply be running privateers anymore, however much they may act the part. There is only one source of men trained or able to be trained for such actions as coastal raids: someone has deep pockets, and pays for regular army, navy, and marines.  
  
"We think that they launch for Gondor from Inkilon, just like the others, though the ships cannot be made there: not enough slips, not enough wood, though we've had a good pair of eyes among the Haradrim in the last year—just got word this Yuletide which may help us."  
  
"Intriguing, and I wish you luck, for we should like to stop fighting pirates ourselves. But what has this to do with what happened here tonight?" Ornendil prompted, recognizing the look of a hunter engrossed in the pursuit of his own problem. Fortunately, Albarion seemed the sort of man who found the company of others no hindrance to his pursuit, and so rather than resent the question, he took it up with enthusiasm and barely a pause.   
  
"Well, we had got wind of something in the works—something that was to shock and surprise us. We figured it would probably be an early raid, and likely sizable at that. And rumor kept pointing us to a ship we had been watching, but had never caught with contraband or stolen goods: her captain had the right pedigree for this sort of thing: younger son of a minor lord, looking to increase his family's standing. You know the sort."  
  
"Indeed. Continue," Ornendil murmured.  
  
"We were fortunate: we  _did_  catch him, after a fashion: we caught the ship that was carrying orders for him at one of the Faldor islands. According to those orders, our man was to meet another ship a day out from Dol Amroth and make landfall here at Calardin—or so we thought from the description. We're used to raids around the Ethir and even up around Linhir, but no Corsair has made landfall that close to Dol Amroth for more than a hundred years, and north-side at that!  
  
"So, we've been hunting for those ships ever since. We caught one of them earlier this week, but only because we were waiting for her in Faldor. Once we had her, we made for Calardin as swiftly as we could, hoping to arrive ahead of the other. Alas, we were lately come: we overtook her on the bay here, heading back out to sea as swiftly as she could run the moment she caught sight of us on the water, for we could not answer her code properly. So she fled, we followed and caught her a little less than a mile out of anchorage. Strange thing, though: when we boarded her, there were crew, but no marines. Not even mercenaries, though there seemed to be plenty of space for them and more than enough sea-bags."  
  
"For while you were chasing the ship, our lads were facing the missing marines," Ornendil finished, and shook his head, amazed. "They must have been waiting for the other half of the raiding party—the other ship you caught. That is why they delayed so long before striking."  
  
"The part of the signal sequence Andrahar observed would work out to:  _No sign,_  more or less. No doubt the whole thing was  _No sign of ship._  If what Andrahar overheard at the parley was not a lie, the older, more seasoned men in the raiding party had misgivings about the plan, and apparently prevailed on the younger commander to wait for a time. But eventually, it seems as though the commander signaled his ship once more, and was told to go ahead, despite the fact that they were unexpectedly alone."  
  
"And when they met unanticipated resistance, and their commander was killed, they retreated to wait again, signaled their ship with the news…"  
  
"And discovered they had been abandoned," Albarion finished. "I suppose they must have first tended to their wounded—we did find some men on the beach who had clearly been treated for wounds received this very night, but who either killed themselves or were killed by their fellows, to prevent them from being captured once it became clear that they had been left."  
  
Ornendil grunted, lips thinning at that, though he was not wholly surprised.  _Warrior caste, no doubt of it!_  At length, he said, "That does explain much that was puzzling. You have my thanks, commander."  
  
"Thank your men. Little good our knowledge would have done the village folk had your lads not been here ahead of us," Albarion replied, and shook his head incredulously. "One knight and an esquire and a lot of villagers with fishing spears!"  
  
"Yes, it has been a very interesting night," Ornendil said dryly, though inwardly, he winced, thinking once more of what might have been, for they themselves had arrived only just in time.  _If Andrahar and Peloren had not held as long as they did, if the villagers they had with them had fled or panicked, if their first plan had not worked as well as it did, if the Haradrim had not called parley, if we had been just a little less swift…_    
  
Any slight change, and their work this night would have been more vengeful than saving. And though in the end, fortune had favored them all, putting Andrahar and Peloren in place to defend Calardin, making it possible that they should have been able to make their cobbled-together defense effective, that did not change the fact that they should never have been there in the first place had matters been less desperate at home for all of their black swans. And there, too, chance alone had saved them—for Elethil might not have come down from Badhon…  
  
 _'Twill be a long report to the prince,_  Ornendil thought unhappily. But as he had told Peloren, it had been on his watch, and a captain reaped the consequences of his failures or he was no captain at all. Setting such concerns aside therefore, he said, "We will take your news to the Prince tomorrow when we make our report—if you have aught else you would send to him, please call upon us."  
  
"My thanks, I'll have a sheaf of papers for you, captain. And we shall stay in the area for some days, to be certain the threat has passed," Albarion replied, even as the sound of hoofs and horses signaled the arrival of more riders.   
  
"That should be Théorwyn. Would you excuse me, please?" Ornendil asked, and when Albarion inclined his head, he made his way out, ducking slightly as he passed through the doorframe.   
  
It was indeed Théorwyn, the Master of Horses immediately ordering his men to hobble their mounts and turn in for the night. He caught sight of Ornendil approaching, and clicked his tongue at his steed, which obediently began following him over to meet the Armsmaster.  
  
"What news?" Ornendil asked.  
  
"Nothing, save a number of relieved farmers and villagers. Imrahil was quick, but he and the escort he met coming back did get the word out," Théorwyn reported. "And the north seems secure as well—no sign of marauders."  
  
"Thankfully. But we cannot take for granted any longer that the northern capes and shores are safe—if the Corsairs are willing to try once, they will try again. We need more of a presence here," Ornendil said.   
  
"Sweep riders at least," the Master of Horses said, and Ornendil nodded. Théorwyn grunted, then asked, in a lower voice, "How are our lads?"  
  
"Exhausted. Chagrined. More than a little amazed to have their lives and that a defense thrown together with straw to bind it worked," Ornendil answered.   
  
"That sounds about right," Théorwyn sighed. Then: "And Elethil?"  
  
"With Peloren," Ornendil said simply, and the younger man nodded slowly.   
  
"What does Kendrion say of them?"  
  
"That they ought to recover with time and rest, so long as matters change at home."  
  
"And shall they?"  
  
Ornendil laid a hand upon his colleague's shoulder, and as he began guiding Théorwyn back to the spreading encampment of Swan Knight bedrolls, he said softly, "They must change. But how? That is the question, my friend!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On parley: There are at least three instances in LOTR where parley is called for. Firstly: the parley at the Black Gates. Granted, that was a 'going-through-the-motions' meeting that Sauron used to torment his enemies, it would be a strange move on the part of Gandalf et al., if they did not expect to be received, and as even the Mouth of Sauron said, ambassadors have immunity from harm when they act as such.
> 
> Secondly, during the final stages of the battle for Helm's Deep, Aragorn goes out upon the wall above the gates, and holds his hand up, "palm outward in token of parley"; and the orcs actually do speak to him, and don't shoot at him immediately. In a third instance, Halbarad makes the same gesture when he answers Éomer's challenge in "The Passing of the Grey Company." Either Aragorn and Halbarad both use that sign because they are commonly Dúnedain of the North, or they use it because it is the appropriate sign in Rohan and they know this, or else it is more wide-spread in Middle-earth than the North and/or Rohan. I've chosen to go with the third possibility, and to give it a more explicit and binding imperative, not simply to respect the immunity of the speakers, but to answer a request for parley in the first place.
> 
> Attempts to write Peloren as concussed are based on the Mayo Clinic's descriptions. Thanks also to Lyllyn again for suggestions on recovery times and ways of injuring poor Peloren and Andrahar that would fit with the scenario I had wanted.
> 
> Finally, Altariel pointed out that "Telmar" is the name of a country in one of C.S. Lewis's Narnia novels. This is purely coincidental!


	11. Ash and Water

Peloren came slowly awake the next morning to the sound of waves and gulls. For a time, he simply lay quietly, breathing deeply and trying to decide just how much his head ached. He felt a bit stiff and tired still, and the air outside the covers was cool against flesh that felt tender and hotly swollen. Indeed, he felt himself on the verge of a shiver, but there was something warm and solid at his back, and a weight across his ribs…   
  
Opening his eyes, Peloren glanced down at the arm thrown over him. Someone's breath tickled against the back of his neck.  _Elethil._  A vast relief flooded him, and with a soft sigh, he reached and took his friend's slack hand in his and squeezed gently.   
  
"Mmph." Elethil grunted, shifting slightly. Then he stiffened, and in an abruptly alert tone reflective of many an early and unexpected morning call: "Pel?"  
  
"Aye, I'm awake."  
  
More shifting about, and as Peloren rolled carefully onto his back, he found himself looking up at Elethil, who had pushed himself up on an elbow. For a moment, they stared at each other, then Elethil asked, "How is your head?"  
  
"Sore," Peloren replied. But after an experimental tilt this way and that, he added: "But better than last night."  
  
"Master Kendrion said you were lucky you did not crack your skull," his friend replied.   
  
Peloren sighed. "Aye, we were lucky," he murmured. Then: "Help me up?"  
  
Elethil lent a hand and shoulder, as Peloren carefully sat up, wincing a bit. "Aie, my back! What—?"  
  
"You were cut," Elethil explained, as Peloren felt at the bandages wrapped about his torso. "They said they found you under one of the Haradrim, that Andrahar said he had seen you fall. What happened, Pel?"  
  
 _What **did**  happen?_ "I'm not quite sure," Peloren replied, frowning as he tried to recall. "The Corsairs were pressing us hard, and then some of them got around us—they climbed up to the next level on the road and went for the villagers. Andrahar went after them, and left the others to me."   
  
He paused a moment, then continued more slowly. "I was holding one of them off, and then… it was like a brand drawn down my back. I suppose that was someone's sword, and the next thing I knew, something heavy pulled me down." He gave Elethil an anxious look then. "I do not remember anything after that."  
  
"We must have come not long after. We reached the village and were challenged by a number of greybeards with fishing spears, and a couple of swords they weren't even holding rightly," Elethil said. "But they let us pass quickly enough when they realized who we were. Ornendil and the others went straight down, quick as they could, and found Andrahar and a few of the villagers still retreating, holding the Corsairs off." He shook his head. "It was over fairly swiftly after—"  
  
He was interrupted in his tale by a soft knock upon the door. Elethil scrambled off the bed then to answer, cracking the door open to see who it was, before he stood back, bowing politely. "Mistress Falwen," he said, as the herbwoman entered, a trencher with two bowls and steaming mugs set upon it.   
  
"Good morning," she replied, and lifted the tray slightly. "I heard voices, and thought you might be hungry."  
  
"Thank you, mistress," the esquires said gratefully.   
  
"You have been more than kind," Peloren added. "I am sorry to have turned you out of your bed!"  
  
"'Tis no trouble, young lord. The Corsairs would have turned us out of our skins!" Falwen replied, as she set the trencher down upon the stand by the bed. She went to the window and opened the shutters, letting the morning light in. Then she turned and laid a hand under Peloren's chin, gently tilting his head up as she peered at the bruising, felt at his forehead.   
  
"Mmm. No fever. The bruising looks worse than it is, and Dolwen stitched your back up right neatly. You ought to have a fetching scar to show the lasses, I warrant," she declared, and smiled when Peloren blushed. Then she lifted an arm and handed him what had seemed to be a towel, but which turned out to be Peloren's shirt, neatly folded.   
  
"You're a long-limbed lad, or we'd have found a clean shirt for you last night," she said, by way of apology. "As it is, my grand-daughter patched this one, though I fear we could not match the swatch. You shall want someone else to mend it properly, young lord."  
  
"My thanks to you and your family, Mistress," Peloren murmured, but did not move immediately to put it on. Instead, recalling his conversation with Master Ornendil the night before, he asked, hesitantly, "Mistress Falwen?"  
  
"Aye, young lord?"  
  
"How many were there? Of the eleven men who fought with us, how many…?" he trailed off, not quite able to complete the question. The old herbwoman sighed at that, and her cheer faded.  
  
"Alas, we've six to bury this morn, and 'tis too early yet to say whether the other three might not join them, though your Master Kendrion is a wonder," she replied.   
  
"So many as that?" Peloren murmured, feeling a bit numb.   
  
"They kept the Corsairs from us, as they'd hoped to," Falwen replied, stoutly. Then, a little more hesitantly: "I'd not wanted to trouble you before you'd had a bite to eat, but if you wished to stay and stand with us when the time comes, there's none that wouldn't welcome you."   
  
"I should have to ask Master Ornendil if I could," Peloren said, but he lifted his eyes to meet Falwen's gaze. "I should like to, though. Thank you once again, Mistress."  
  
"No, you've our thanks, young lord, you and your commander." It took Peloren a moment to realize that by 'commander,' she meant Andrahar.  _Andrahar._  There was another question for the morning.  _I wonder how things look to him this morning. And now Elethil is here, too…_  Peloren sighed and bowed his head a moment, then shook out his shirt and drew it on, wincing just a bit at the pull of stitches. Then he glanced at breakfast.  
  
Falwen smiled, determinedly cheerful once more, and said: "Now you just go ahead and eat that. I've had three boys, and I've never known lads your age to be less than always famished! Good morning to you, young lords."  
  
With that, she made her way out. As soon as the door closed behind her, Peloren breathed a soft sigh, and reached for one of the bowls. But ere he had taken even one bite, he glanced up at Elethil, hovering anxiously nearby, and said, "Come and sit with me. There's that stool in the corner." And when Elethil hesitated, he added: "You might as well eat, Elya. You must be hungry."  
  
"I suppose so," his friend replied, and then obediently fetched the stool, dragging it over to sit down across from Peloren, who pushed a bowl toward him. For his own part, Peloren wolfed his food down, for he had not had supper the night before and his stomach growled softly. But preoccupied as he was by breakfast, he still kept an eye upon the other, who ate swiftly, though without any seeming relish.   
  
As Peloren set his bowl down, he gazed at his friend, who was scraping the last of the porridge from his own bowl. And when Elethil, feeling his stare, looked up at him questioningly, Peloren asked: "How is it with you this morn, Elya?"  
  
Elethil grunted, and ducked his head, staring down at his hands as he played with the spoon. "I am not sure," he replied at length, and shrugged. "I feel a fool, I suppose."  
  
"Well, so that makes two of us," Peloren replied, with a slight smile. But Elethil shook his head.  
  
"'Tis not the same!" he insisted. "You would not have come here had it not been for me. You could have been killed!"   
  
"And we should have been, if it kept the villagers from harm just a little longer," Peloren replied, firmly, though inwardly he shivered a bit. "'Tis not your fault, Elethil. 'Twas the Corsairs that wanted this fight."  
  
"Mayhap, but—"  
  
" _Elya._ " Peloren stopped him. "I'm fine, truly. And someone would have had to stand and mayhap fall—or why else do you think we didn't run? It's all right. We're all right." And he held the other's gaze until, at last, Elethil nodded slowly… and looked away. Peloren chewed gently at the tip of his tongue, knowing on the one hand that he had not answered his friend, not truly, and on the other, acutely, painfully conscious of the fact that he had no answer.   
  
 _But he is still here. That is not nothing!_  So he told himself, and wished he could silence that voice that insisted his friend still was unwell, desperately so, and that there had to be  _something_  to do about it, some cure to be had, if only he could find it…  
  
At length, however, lacking any curative insights, Peloren sighed inwardly and rose, and Elethil hastened to rise with him.  
  
"I want to find Master Ornendil," Peloren said. "I know he doesn't owe me aught, but it cannot hurt to ask if I could stay for a time."  
  
"I'll come with you," Elethil said. Peloren gave him a long look, then added:  
  
"And I want to find Andrahar."  
  
Elethil was still for a moment, but then: "I'll come with you."   
  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
  
They did not find Ornendil, however: he had gone with Commander Albarion to talk over matters with the captain of the _Telmar_. Master Théorwyn had been left in command, and he gave Peloren an appraising look. "How do you feel this morning?" he asked.  
  
"Well enough, sir," Peloren replied. "A bit of a headache."  
  
"Not terribly surprising," the Horsemaster replied, with a faint smile. "Was there something you wanted, Peloren? Why do you seek the Armsmaster?"  
  
"Mistress Falwen told me they would be burying their dead today," Peloren answered. "I do not know if I am expected back at Dol Amroth, but I wondered whether I could stay until they were done, sir."  
  
"You know you are under Master Kendrion's jurisdiction?"   
  
"I am?"  
  
"Aye. You and Andrahar, both. And I believe Kendrion plans to remain for a time, to give the three village lads hurt in the battle their best chance. Mistress Falwen knows her herbs, but Master Kendrion knows surgery," Théorwyn replied. "I expect there shall be no trouble. Andrahar has already asked to remain for a time in any case, and neither of you would be permitted back on the lists until the healers deemed you fit for it. Although you, Elethil, are expected to return with the rest of the company."  
  
"Yes, sir," Elethil said quietly. The Horsemaster seemed to weigh that response, and its tone, his eyes resting on the rather subdued esquire a long moment ere he said briskly:  
  
"Well, then. Is there aught else?" And when both esquires shook their heads, he gave them a nod and gestured broadly to the village. "Then you are on your own recognizance for the time being, barring orders from Master Kendrion or Master Ornendil."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Peloren replied. But then he hesitated a moment. "Sir?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You said Andrahar had asked to stay. Do you know where he is, sir?"  
  
Théorwyn raised a brow, and gave Peloren a searching look, then glanced at Elethil. But then: "Aye. He is with the Haradrim." And he gestured then towards the cliff. "On the beach."  
  
"The beach?" Elethil murmured, confused, as he and Peloren left the Horsemaster's company and made for the cliff and the road. Peloren shrugged, mystified.   
  
"I do not know," he replied.  
  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
  
But they soon found out. There was blood upon the trail this morn, forming little clots of sand or splashed up upon the cliff wall. Peloren found himself gritting his teeth as he walked, and he kept his eyes on the cove below. By the light of day, all lay open to view. The gulls were out in force, launching from crannies in the cliffside, hovering on the morning air, and they passed glimmering over sands. There, a number of blue-clad figures moved, passing back and forth along the beach, bringing driftwood whither a number of still forms lay all in a row. And standing over them was a smaller, darker figure than the others, his blue-black hair unbound for once and streaming in the breeze.   
  
Andrahar did not notice them as they stepped off the path and onto the sand. He was crouched with his back to them at the head of one of his fallen countrymen, and it seemed to Peloren that he spoke softly under his breath, one hand laid over the eyes of the dead man. From man to man he passed, uncovering faces as he went, and upon each brow left a dark mark. Elethil and Peloren exchanged a quick, uncertain look, and by unspoken agreement, remained where they stood, unwilling to interrupt whatever ritual this was, which did not appear to be the same as they had been led to expect from any of Master Harthil's lectures, or even Andrahar's.  
  
At length, the Swan Knight came to the end of the row—twenty-eight men, all told, victims of falls or stones or blades, and of the latter, not all of them Gondorian.  _We should have been among them,_  Peloren could not but think once more, and felt a little dizzy considering it. But Elethil was there with a hand under his elbow, steadying him, and he breathed in deeply, and the dizziness receded.   
  
Andrahar rose then, unfolding like a cat. As he straightened, Peloren noted the little bowl he left upon the sand, with some mixture in it that looked like ash, almost, and something else… The Southron stood for a moment, staring down at the dead, and then he glanced at his right hand, the one he had used to draw the mark upon the brows of the others. A moment he seemed to hesitate over that strange chrism, turning a little from the Haradrim. It was at that point he caught sight of Peloren and Elethil standing by, watching. Dark eyes widened slightly, and then a certain wariness settled upon him—wariness, or was it rather a certain self-consciousness Peloren was not accustomed to see in the other?  
  
Peloren cleared his throat a bit, then offered, a little awkwardly, "Good morrow."  
  
"Good morning," Andrahar replied. His left arm was bound in a sling this morn, and it appeared that someone had found him a clean set of clothes at least, though even so, the homespun shirtsleeves fell just a bit high past the wrists. Peloren noted a bruise to his left cheek that he did not recall from the night before, and frowned a little.  
  
"What happened?" he asked, raising a hand to brush along his own face by way of illustration.   
  
"Weak guard on the left," Andrahar replied laconically, as his eyes flicked up and down Peloren's person, then cut to Elethil swiftly, ere he returned his gaze to Peloren. "What brings you?"  
  
"I thought that we should talk. But if we should wait…" Peloren gestured to the Haradrim. Something flickered in those dark eyes, and that sense of self-conscious closing-off intensified as Andrahar lowered his gaze once more.  
  
"No. The thing is done; they wait but for the fire," he replied, and rather abruptly turned and made for the shoreline, though he did call over his shoulder: "Come if you like."  
  
Peloren bit his lip, but he reached and touched Elethil's arm, and the two of them followed silently after the young knight.  
  
Andrahar had never loved the sea, and he did not venture out into the shallows, even, only as far as the tide lapping the shore. There he sank down on his haunches and dipped his hand into the water, splashing a bit as he washed the sticky-seeming substance from his fingers. When he had done, though, he did not rise, but simply stared out at the ocean, running a wet hand through his hair. Peloren, staring at him, at his back and the set of his shoulders, felt a slight shiver go through him, and suddenly he was glad he could not see the other's face.   
  
" _Here am I, again, yet again—_ ahaya!" Andrahar paused, then asked: "How did we come here, precisely?"  
  
Peloren blinked, momentarily thrown off by the quick shifts between tongues. And in truth, he was not certain how to answer, uncertain what to make of the question, to say nothing of the rest that left him wondering what preoccupied his erstwhile classmate.  _Other than everything, I suppose,_  he amended, feeling a familiar flutter of shame. At length, though, he replied, "I don't know that I've more of an answer than I had last night."  
  
Andrahar sighed, and now he did rise, turning to them as he shook his head. "No," he corrected. "I mean: how did we come  _here_? I have wondered about it since last night. What happened in Dol Amroth that sent everything sliding into the sea—this complaint that's arisen. Do you know?"  
  
At that, Elethil looked to Peloren anxiously, and shook his head minutely. Peloren grunted. "It's as I said—'twas not we who made it, and if it was not you…" He trailed off and shrugged. "Who would complain on our behalf in any case?" he asked, feeling at a loss.   
  
"It would be simpler if that were the question," Andrahar replied, eyes narrowing. "What I read was too carefully construed. Master Harthil knows his word-craft, yet I think me it was given to him in so vague a form. 'Tis more profitable thus."  
  
"Profitable?" Peloren frowned. "You think this was meant to make trouble?"  
  
"There is no lack of it in Dol Amroth where you two or I are concerned," Andrahar pointed out. Which was all too true, Peloren thought, even as Elethil spoke up unexpectedly.  
  
"But if that is so," he asked quietly, "who was the target? You? Or we?"  
  
Andrahar made no immediate reply to that, nor did Peloren, and for a time, all three stood in silence, combing back through memory, seeking an answer. At length, Andrahar said, "'Tis impossible to say, for as many as would see you gone, there are no doubt as many as would see me leave, too. Nor need it be the case that this was aimed at only one or the other of us; there must surely be many who would gladly be rid of the lot of us. Always assuming there was malice in this."  
  
"I thought you said this complaint seemed to you too profitably vague," Peloren said.  
  
"Everything has a seeming," Andrahar said and gave a one-shouldered shrug; "It need not be true, though."   
  
"But who would have known in any case?" Elethil frowned, brows knitting in puzzlement. "That I cannot understand. There was no one in the hall to see us, and we only spoke with Imri when he came calling."  
  
"And Imri would not have taken it further," Peloren said, for Imrahil was nothing if not faithful to his oaths.   
  
"Nay, 'twas not Imrahil," Andrahar said, with certainty. "But thinking on it, there was one other in the hall: Uilovar. I met him as he left Master Harthil."  
  
"Uilovar? He's not aligned with anyone, I thought," Peloren said, searching his memory.   
  
"He has friends who go with Faldion," Elethil pointed out.  
  
"Aye, but he also has friends who are friends with Torlas," Peloren countered, and shook his head. "If he saw, and spoke with someone about what he saw, it might have gone anywhere."  
  
"But he cannot have seen much," Andrahar mused. "That would account for the vagueness. If the tale is out among the other esquires, no doubt there are ten different versions of the night before last already!" At that, all three of them grimaced, disliking the thought of returning to Dol Amroth to face such gossip.  _Especially atop all the rest!_  Peloren thought unhappily. Then:  
  
"You think he brought the complaint, then?"  
  
"He might have, though there is still the matter of there being more than one esquire reporting to Master Harthil, unless that is a shield," Andrahar replied. "There is no knowing, unless we ask Uilovar."  
  
"Or Master Harthil," Peloren said, and gave Andrahar a queer look. "He asked questions about you during the examination, did you know that?"  
  
Andrahar grunted, eyes narrowing. But in the end, he said only: "He is not one to ask after, Master Harthil. Leave him to the masters."  
  
"The masters said they would call upon us again," Elethil said softly. "That we would have to answer then in full."  
  
"You've already spoken to them, Elethil," Peloren said, surprised by the new fearfulness in his friend's voice.  
  
"No, I told them about last term, and about where I had been and why," Elethil replied, eyes downcast now. "We had not come so far as the complaint when Imrahil arrived."  
  
Peloren understood then, and he felt his heart sink.  _I thought he had said all, when Master Ornendil reassured me. But if this whole affair still stands…_  If Elethil still had not said anything of what precisely had provoked the encounter in the hall, and if Andrahar, too, had kept silent, then reckoning remained.  _And we swore we would be courteous to all… or we would leave._  But if Elethil were cast out, where then  _would_  he go…?  
  
"Give me leave to speak with Master Ornendil about this." Peloren and Elethil looked up in startlement at Andrahar, who sighed at their twin uncomprehending looks. "It is as I told you last night, Peloren: I may not speak, for I said I would not. Give me leave to do so, and I will."  
  
The two esquires exchanged still puzzled looks, ere Peloren shrugged slightly. "For my part, you have my leave," he said, and Elethil nodded, after only a brief hesitation. "But what is there to say?"  
  
"Everything, apparently," came the somewhat dry response. But then more seriously: "We need not be friends to be allies in this. This inquest helps no one if it goes before others for judgment of wrong. There is enough wrong to spread about, there should be no need to use the three of us to measure it."  
  
Peloren wordlessly laid a hand upon Elethil's back, and he caught the other's eyes as his friend looked at him.  _It should have to come out in any case,_  he thought.  _At least there would be no need to fret over what Andrahar might say._  Elethil, perhaps, divined his thought, for he lowered his eyes and sighed softly, but he also nodded.   
  
"We would always be bound to answer truthfully," Peloren said aloud, as much to remind himself as Elethil, and then looked to Andrahar. "If you will say it has gone far enough, then we shall hope the masters shall listen."  
  
So agreed, the three of them made their way back from the shoreline, and Andrahar at least made straight for the knot of Swan Knights who had apparently finished with the task of piling driftwood, hatcheted planks, and dried seaweed about and beneath the dead. Peloren and Elethil, after a momentary hesitation, trailed after him.   
  
Heads rose as the three of them approached, and then one of the knights stepped forward. Sergeant Barcalan gave Andrahar a nod, and said, "Is there aught else that we should do, Andrahar?"  
  
Andrahar shook his head. "No, Sergeant," he replied. "Just keep the fire burning."  
  
"No fear but that we shall. 'Tis as well we ride for Dol Amroth by day, or 't'would be a long, dark journey home with all the torch oil we've used here," Barcalan replied, and signed to one of the men standing by with a torch in hand. "Ilembor."  
  
Ilembor stepped forward then, and lowered the brand to the kindling laid all about and beneath the Haradrim, walking all along the row of bodies, flames blossoming in his wake. At the end, he let fall the torch and stood back—indeed, everyone stood back, for Barcalan had spoken truly. Torch oil caught swiftly, the fire leaping up with a roar. Peloren closed his eyes a moment against the heat and the sting of smoke, then reopened them and determinedly made himself watch as the funerary flames did their work, devouring his foes one by one.   
  
The Haradrim, as the esquires had learned, held that fire purified, that it sent Men back to the element in which they began. And perhaps there was something to that—watching the flames mount and lick at the morning air, it was as if they caught in Peloren's heart and mind, too, burning away the terror of last night, and spreading to consume the fear that had possessed him too many long days and months, reducing the past to ashes.   
  
 _It will pass, all this trouble,_  he thought suddenly, and for the first time believed it.  _It will pass, and we shall still be here, knights of Dol Amroth._  He reached and laid a hand upon Elethil's shoulder, gripping firmly, kneading a bit, and he felt Elethil lay a hand over his.  
  
A little beyond them both, Andrahar stood with his head bowed, and Peloren wondered at his silence.  _'Tis said Haradrim sing for their dead. Or is it only for their own fellow bondsmen?_  He could not recall. But when at length the other raised his head, Peloren saw Andrahar's lips moving without sound, though his eyes were closed. Nor did he open them until he had finished whatever song or prayer he mouthed, nor did he move, as in twos and threes, those who had helped to prepare the bodies and the fire made their salutes and departed.   
  
At length, only six of them remained: Peloren, Elethil, and Andrahar, along with the pair of knights assigned to watch the pyres and keep them burning, and Sergeant Barcalan. And Barcalan, after a little while, came to stand with them, and he gently touched Elethil's arm, and Peloren's.  _Come,_  his eyes beckoned, when the two esquires glanced at him, and he nodded discreetly towards Andrahar.  _Come away and leave him be._    
  
Perhaps that was a wise idea, for though Peloren did not think Andrahar was one to shed many tears over the deaths of his enemies, his mood was certainly troubled and strange this morning. He made a somewhat stiff bow, as courtesy required even for the enemy dead, and then began to follow Barcalan carefully around towards the road. But as he cast a habitual glance back over his shoulder, seeking Elethil behind him, he realized his friend remained standing by the pyre, by Andrahar. Peloren paused, uncertain whether he ought to go back or beckon to him before Barcalan noticed—sergeants were not known for their willingness to give orders twice.  
  
But before he could say a word, Elethil turned toward Andrahar and stood there, waiting, until presently Andrahar glanced up at him. Grey eyes met black ones, held a moment, and then Elethil spoke. "I cannot unsay what I've said or thought. And we are not friends. Or peers. But I know you saved Peloren last night, and…" Elethil paused, as his voice tightened. Yet he drew himself up a bit, and finished, in a sincere rush: "Thank you for his life, sir."  
  
A moment longer Elethil remained, then bowed his head and moved to follow Peloren and Barcalan. He had only just reached Peloren, however, when Andrahar called after him: "Elethil." And when Elethil turned back, the other said: "'Tis not friends or peers that matter; Swan Knights keep each other."   
  
With that, he lowered his gaze once more to the fire, and Peloren gave his friend a nudge. Elethil shook himself a bit at that, and darted a glance at Peloren, ere looking back swiftly at Andrahar once more, before finally he turned away. And Peloren laid an arm about his shoulders as they went, and leaning in close, murmured, "He's right, you know."   
  
Elethil sighed and nodded. "I know," he said softly.  
  
"Do you?" Peloren asked. Elethil shot him an irritated look at that, but Peloren did not turn away, only held his gaze until something like understanding flickered in the other's eyes. Peloren smiled slightly, and pressed his friend close and hard a moment ere releasing him.   
  
"We'll keep each other, Elya," he murmured, and meant it as a promise. "We'll see this thing through as far as it must go."   
  
Elethil bowed his head and rubbed a bit at his eyes. "I just want to have done with it all, Pel!" he said tiredly.  
  
"So do I. And soon enough," he vowed, "we shall."  
  
  
  
But they had the day still to get through, and yet another funeral. It was some hours later, close to noon, that the villagers gathered to lay their lost ones to rest a little ways down the road. Nor they alone: with them came nearly a full company of Swan Knights, walking their steeds behind in silent escort as they followed the villagers, who bore their dead high upon biers and sang as they processed down to the burial grounds.   
  
It was at least a ceremony Peloren knew from the villages around Hathwyn—simple rites, grown up between sea and shore and faithful to both as the dead were laid carefully into the earth and a little water sprinkled over each. Master Dorhan stood forward, then, to speak the words of the wayfaring over those lost.   
  
"The world is bent, and the ways are broken that lead to Valinor—all save one, that each of us must travel one day, ere we leave this world for what lies Beyond," he recited. "Today we send forth our wayfarers on their journey, in the hope that one day, they shall welcome us home. Bless their coming and their going: Turos, Porion, Balan, Ciryar, Anhir, and Hadron. For your lives among us, and your lives laid down for us, and to your loved ones who have let you go, we are grateful."  
  
It was custom afterwards to speak to the family of the slain if one knew them, and both Peloren and Andrahar dutifully stood by, waiting for a moment in which to give their condolences. But it was not so simple a thing as that, for it seemed folk were eager to speak with them as well. Indeed, the two of them soon found themselves the center of a small ring of villagers, who passed from them to the families or the other way around, with some variation on "Thank you" to say. Though perhaps not unexpected, it felt rather awkward, given the circumstances, and the two young men did their best to answer graciously while discreetly attempting to withdraw to do their duty by the bereaved.   
  
In the end, though, it did not matter: the families of their thrown-together little squad ended up coming to them. Peloren had struggled through the whole ceremony to think of something suitable to say of men he had known but a few dark hours—he could say nothing of their lives, and wished he had not to speak of their deaths, but what else was there to speak of? He thought Andrahar managed a little better: having been conscious to witness their passing, he could at least say something more of bravery in battle. But he seemed quite as subdued, often, as Peloren, particularly in the face of familial well-wishes.   
  
"The One bless you both, my lords," said Turos's mother, standing on tiptoe to lay a hand first upon Peloren's head, and then Andrahar's. Peloren watched Andrahar's eyes widen a bit, but he endured the unexpected contact without otherwise flinching from it. But both of them were glad when at last Master Ornendil moved forward to offer his condolences, then drew them aside for a last word.  
  
"You will report to Master Kendrion and ride home with him—I expect you to follow his orders as my own until you return to Dol Amroth. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir," they both replied.   
  
"Very good. Now, when you return, there will be many questions put to you," the Armsmaster warned, giving each of them a long look. "Think well therefore on what you will say. For make no mistake, gentlemen: we cannot continue as we are. We  _may_  not do so. Is that clear?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"I shall hope so. And in the mean time, I wish you well and commend you to Kendrion's care. Until Dol Amroth." And with that, the Armsmaster left them, returning to his horse, and he signaled the company to mount up. As one, they did so, and then two by two, they followed Ornendil south, spurring their horses to a trot and then a canter as they reached the road. Elethil, who was near the end of the line, waved to them, a little forlornly, and Peloren raised a hand in return. He watched as the line of horsemen strung out upon the road, and swifter than one might expect, they were gone.   
  
Peloren and Andrahar followed the villagers back to their homes, but as they went, Peloren found himself slowing, falling further behind. Beside him, Andrahar gave him a queer look, though he, too, slowed, and eventually asked: "Are you well?"  
  
"Fine. 'Tis just that my head hurts. It didn't, earlier, not really, but all of a sudden…" Peloren winced, squinting against the bright sunlight. "Aiya!"   
  
He felt a hand land on his arm, and then Andrahar was saying, "Master Kendrion said you had a concussion."  
  
"Aye, well, I felt fine this morning, more or less," he said and sighed. "I think mayhap I should sit down for awhile."  
  
"Should I fetch the master healer?"  
  
"No. No, I'll be fine. I'll just… find some place to lie down."  
  
In the end, Andrahar walked him over to where the Swan Knights had camped the night before, and where some bedrolls and their owners remained, and one of them, Sildar, upon recognizing the pair of them, took one look at Peloren's face, and said, "Aye, you've about had it, I think. Here, lad, rest here a minute."   
  
"My thanks, sir," Peloren murmured, and let the other guide him over to a set of blankets. And as Peloren sank down upon them, he heard Sildar saying:  
  
"What happened, Andrahar? Is he all right?"  
  
"I think so. He says he is."  
  
"I'm fine," Peloren grunted, squeezing his eyes shut. "Don't need a healer. Just need a little time."  
  
"You're sure?" Shadows fell upon him as both Sildar and Andrahar leaned over him.   
  
"Aye. Certain."  _Just leave me be!_  Peloren pressed a hand over his eyes. The sudden resurgence of the headache aside, all the tumult of feeling that had marked the morning left him feeling quite thoroughly drained of a sudden.   
  
Happily, it seemed that his knighted brethren were willing to accept his assurances, for after a moment, the others withdrew, and with a sigh of relief, Peloren curled up and fell almost immediately asleep.  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
The sun was setting when Peloren woke once more, this time to a hand on his shoulder, and a voice gently calling to him. "Peloren," Master Kendrion said, and gave him a slight shake. "Wake up, lad."  
  
Yawning, Peloren blinked his eyes open and then pushed himself up on one arm. The silver-haired healer gave him a smile and peered closely at him, before pronouncing: "Well, you seem clear-eyed enough. How do you feel?"  
  
"Fine, sir. A little tired of the question, actually," he replied honestly, and Kendrion chuckled, not unkindly.   
  
"I fear you shall have time yet to grow still more weary of it," he said dryly. Then: "Come and have something to eat, and you can return to a well-earned rest."  
  
With a grunt, Peloren climbed to his feet and followed the master healer over to a cluster of Swan Knights ranged about a campfire. They greeted him, and Kendrion, and a few made space for them, while others passed about supper, which consisted of a fish stew, a hunk of bread, and the ubiquitous cup of tea for Peloren.   
  
"No ale for you, lad, 'til Master Kendrion assures us it won't addle your brains further," Sildar jested, as he deftly intercepted the ale-skin being passed about. Peloren wrinkled his nose, but did not argue, instead glancing round the circle.  _Some must be on patrol,_  he thought, and then frowned for the one absence he would not have expected.  
  
"Where is Andrahar?" he asked after a moment, for of a certainty, Master Kendrion would not allow him a place on any guard rotation, wounded as he was. But it was not Kendrion who answered.  
  
"Over there," Sildar replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Peloren leaned a bit to the side and spied a figure curled up beneath a couple of blankets, and with his back safely to a pile of saddlebags.   
  
"Is he all right?"  
  
"He, like you, is following the usual course of youthful knightly recovery," Kendrion informed him then. And when Peloren gave him a puzzled look, he explained: "Denial of injury, insistence upon overdoing it, and collapse." So he said, and smiled, though it did not quite undo the gently chiding tone. "No fear, Peloren, he'll be well. 'Tis simply that he lost a good deal of blood and was up all night, I've no doubt. Next time, someone will stand over him until he has swallowed whatever potion he is given–I found the sleeping draught untouched on the stand this morning."  
  
A few of the Swan Knights chuckled at that. "He's not one to rest overmuch," one of them, Cirendur, said wryly.  
  
Kendrion sighed and shook his head. "No, he is not," he replied, and something about his tone caught Peloren's ear: a certain reminiscent note that puzzled the esquire. However, it was certainly nothing to inquire about at the moment, particularly when Kendrion's next words were: "So far, all of my patients remain with us, though 'tis still touch and go for one of them. If he lasts the night, I am inclined to say I can leave him in the care of Mistress Falwen and the other village herbalists, though I should like to remain some part of tomorrow as well."  
  
"The sergeant said we should render you all assistance, Master Kendrion," Sildar said then. "Whenever you are ready, there will be an escort for you, and to take these two—" and here, the Swan Knight nodded at Peloren and over his shoulder at Andrahar "—home."  
  
At that, a certain silence fell, and Peloren conscientiously attended to his supper, aware, though, of the sense of tension that had settled. For:  _Home,_  he thought, and wondered what lay in store. Master Ornendil had said that there would be questions waiting, questions that must now be answered in full.  _And the Prince—he shall be waiting, too,_  Peloren thought, feeling his stomach clench a bit, for despite his newfound convictions of the morn, still, he did not look forward to that interview.  _What shall he have to say of us? Of Elethil?_  
  
But there was no way around it  _And at least it shall finally be over—all of this affair—shan't it?_  he reminded himself.  _That is what is supposed to happen, after all!_    
  
"'Twill be good to go home," he said in a low voice, and wavered only momentarily as he glanced up to meet the intent gazes that had fallen upon him. Then he lifted his chin and affirmed, a little more strongly, "We all want to come home."  
  
'Twas Master Kendrion who broke the silence. Laying a fatherly hand upon Peloren's back, he nodded, and said, "Well said, lad. Indeed, we do!"   
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
The next day dawned to the discovery that all of Master Kendrion's patients breathed still, much to everyone's relief. And it seemed they suffered no worse than they had, for by mid-afternoon, the master healer pronounced himself satisfied that the worst of the danger was over, though he left Mistress Falwen with several potions he had brought along and a number of strict instructions by which to keep her patients..   
  
That task done, and grateful thanks received, it was time to leave. "Come back when the weather turns," Mistress Falwen told Peloren, and then looked meaningfully beyond him at Andrahar.   
  
"We shall, Mistress," Peloren assured her, ere he mounted one of the spare horses that had been brought along.   
  
"Safe journey," Barcalan wished them, as Kendrion collected his escort from the sergeant.  
  
"A peaceful watch to you, sergeant," the healer replied. Then, glancing at Andrahar and Peloren: "Come!" Obediently, they fell in behind him, the rest of the little three-man escort arranging themselves to either side, with one rider out front. Not that there was likely any danger, but then again, none of them had expected any two nights ago, either.   
  
Their pace on the return journey was far more leisurely than it had been on the way out, and for a wonder, it was another sunny, clear day in March, though cool still with winter. It was an easy ride, too, for the land fell away to the south, as the cliffs slowly sank down to meet the shore. Perversely, Peloren found himself wishing it were more strenuous, for that at least might have claimed his attention, which seemed bent on returning to worry about Elethil.   
  
"You have quite the long face, lad," Master Kendrion said at one point. When Peloren looked at him, he asked, "Which is it? Elethil or Prince Adrahil's judgment?"  
  
"Both," Peloren admitted. But then: "I just want to know…" He trailed off, caught among the many things he wished to know:  _That Elethil will stay with us. That he'll have a place to go. That it won't be Caldor. That he's safe._  Especially that Elethil was safe. "I want to know what will happen to him, to Elya," he finished after a moment.  
  
"Elethil will be well taken care of, never fear," Kendrion replied, kindly. "You will see."  
  
But Peloren did not answer. He was staring fixedly ahead down the road. For there, another hill rose steadily up—the promontory atop which stood Dol Amroth's watchtowers and keep, and all the rest of the city flowing down westward, then curving about south or north to where the great harbor lay.  
  
As evening drew on, and the breeze picked up, and the horizon began to darken with clouds, they reached the gates. Passing unchallenged within, they began to climb once more up from the outer wall towards the inner ramparts. Peloren felt his anxiety rise, as well as an impatience to see Elethil once more, but he held determinedly to their pace. A sideways glance at Andrahar showed no discernible sign of distress, though for a wonder, given Andrahar's uncanny ability to know when he was being watched, he did not respond to Peloren's surreptitious look.  
  
Eventually, they reached the gate to the inner keep, and there again, they were not challenged. Rather, the guards, recognizing the knights and Master Kendrion, greeted them, and the master healer gave a smiling, polite nod in response. The stables were nigh, and everyone made haste to settle his mount. Peloren especially was quick, anxious to go in search of Elethil, and so he took the barest time necessary to see to his horse, and to return Aldan's sword to its place with the rest of his gear, then hurried off toward the doors.  
  
However, he had not gone far down the row of stalls when he was diverted from his purpose by an imperious, impatient neighing. "Lightfall!" Peloren hastened to him.  
  
The gelding tossed his head, stamping a bit, and as soon as Peloren reached the stall, Lightfall stuck his head over the door and sniffed, nostrils flaring, as he nosed his rider, seeming to check for damage.   
  
"I'm back, lad," Peloren murmured, stroking the great arched neck reassuringly, and got a snort, as if of disbelief, for an answer. "I'm back. All is well—well enough, at least. I hope you showed Imrahil your paces!" Another snort, and Peloren sighed, closing his eyes.  
  
"Peloren?" came a slightly amused voice, and Peloren quickly turned to see Master Kendrion standing there, watching, Andrahar and one of the others of their escort at his side.   
  
"I'll come back tomorrow and give you a proper brush," the esquire promised his mount quickly, and gave Lightfall's neck a good slap before moving to join the others. "What happens now?" he asked the healer.  
  
"Now," Kendrion said, "you wait to hear from Master Ornendil. He will have reported to the Prince already, so I do not think you shall have to wait long. In any case, I sent Calambar on ahead to inform them of our arrival."  
  
And in fact, when they reached the keep, the guards there greeted them politely, and the watch commander informed them, "The Prince left instruction: he asks that you go immediately to his study and wait there until he arrives, if he is not already within."  
  
"Thank you," Andrahar said, glancing quickly at Peloren, who nodded as well.   
  
And so in they went, and down the halls, then up the stairs until they reached the prince's study, Peloren feeling acutely conscious of his rather windblown appearance and the over-large shirt and trousers he had borrowed from one of the Swan Knights that morning. All of which was no doubt the least of his concerns, and so he worried at it 'til they arrived at the door of Adrahil's study. The guard there opened the door for them, then stood aside, and Peloren entered, holding his breath.   
  
Already Master Théorwyn and Captain Valandil were there, standing together and talking quietly. There was no sign of Prince Adrahil yet. There were, however, several chairs drawn up in a circle, and making a quick count of expected bodies, Peloren came up with one less than the number of chairs, and frowned. But he had not long to wonder.  
  
"Go ahead, Peloren," Kendrion prompted, and gave him a gently nudge forward. Then, somewhat to Peloren's surprise, the healer shut the door behind them all, and then urged his two wards, "Have a seat. I expect we await only the Armsmaster and Master Illian."  
  
 _Then is the Prince here?_  Peloren wondered, and looked towards the closed door that led to the inner study. Might he be there now? And what was he doing? All such questions, however, would receive their answer in due time, and so, with an effort, he schooled himself to patience, and obediently followed Andrahar over to claim a chair. It was vaguely amusing to watch the Southron hesitate over his, one hand laid over the back, clearly itching to turn it about, as was his usual way with chairs. However, it was a brief moment only, and then he settled into it, though he seemed somewhat ill at ease, even as Peloren felt.  
  
Kendrion, meanwhile, had joined Théorwyn and Valandil, but they had only just greeted him when all eyes were drawn away once more by new arrivals. For the door opened at just that moment to admit Masters Illian and Ornendil.   
  
"Our apologies for the delay," Master Ornendil said. "Calambar found us not long ago."  
  
"'Tis no trouble," Valandil assured him. "Kendrion has only just brought Peloren and Andrahar."  
  
At that, the Armsmaster glanced over at them, and he made the two of them a nod. Peloren and Andrahar inclined their heads politely, even as Valandil excused himself to go and knock upon the inner door.   
  
After a few moments, the door opened, and there stood Adrahil… and with him a rather pensive Elethil. Peloren felt his spine stiffen and his heart beat a little more quickly, as his gaze fixed anxiously upon his friend. Adrahil murmured something to Elethil, who nodded, and then made his way over to join Peloren and Andrahar, sliding into the seat next to Peloren.  
  
"Pel," he murmured.  
  
"Elya," Peloren replied. "What did the Prince want?"  
  
Elethil shook his head, however. "Later," he said shortly, which did little to reassure Peloren, who pressed:  
  
"Are you well?"  
  
Elethil gave him a sideways look. "There is always a healer hovering about. And Imrahil and Aldan and the others have been trying to distract me since yesterday," he said, by way of roundabout answer.  
  
"Oh." Peloren bit his lip. Beside him, he thought he heard Andrahar give a soft snort, but other things claimed his attention then.   
  
"Gentlemen," Adrahil was saying, and as all turned towards him, those seated rose to make their bows.   
  
"My lord prince," Peloren said, and heard deferential murmurings all around the room.  
  
Adrahil inclined his head politely. "Thank you for coming," he said, and then gestured to the chairs. "Please be seated, so that we may begin."  
  
There was a brief silence, as everyone made haste to take his place, Kendrion claiming the seat on Elethil's other side, so that the masters, Captain Valandil, and the Prince ended seemingly ranged over against the younger men. No one sat, however, until Adrahil had done so, and then with a sighing rustle of tunics and tabards, the rest of them followed suit. When all had settled, Adrahil leaned back in his chair and eyed Peloren, Elethil, and Andrahar a long moment.   
  
"'Tis strange to me," the prince said at length, as he subjected each pair of eyes in turn to that searching regard, "that it seems I only ever see the three of you together of late when there is trouble afoot. Not even a rise in the ranks seems to overcome this tendency." This, as he held Andrahar's gaze. Andrahar, after but a moment, bowed his head.   
  
"Moreover," he continued, tone growing more severe, "it seems that the lesson of last time was not learned—we discovered then a grievous willingness to take matters into one's own hands. When such happens, it not only hampers us in our efforts to maintain a just peace in our ranks, but it bespeaks a sad lack of trust in those who are your brothers, especially of those of your brothers whose task it is to ensure your fraternity.  
  
"That cannot be permitted to continue," Adrahil said firmly. "Is this understood?"  
  
"Yes, my lord prince," Peloren said, and heard Elethil and Andrahar saying likewise. The prince gave them all another long look before he nodded sharply.  
  
"We shall hold you to that—and the others as well, rest assured," Adrahil said, garnering some uncertain looks from the three young men. "So, let us have this tale out in the open at last."  
  
At that, Peloren glanced first and worriedly at Elethil, then uncertainly at Andrahar, who looked back at both of them a moment ere decision flickered in those dark eyes. He turned back to the prince, and rose to bow once more.   
  
"My lord prince," he said, "I could tell you what passed on Friday evening, and I should, for I never answered the questions put to me about it. But there are many other tales that bring us to this point, and knowing them now—for we have talked, Peloren, Elethil, and I—I cannot say that I know now who was more wronged that night."  
  
Adrahil's eyebrow arched. "Do continue," he invited. And then he gestured swiftly, adding, "Sit down, Andrahar, this is not a trial."  
  
"Thank you, my lord prince," Andrahar replied, and resumed his seat, and after only a moment's silence, began to speak. For the next while, Peloren sat with his eyes downcast, listening to Andrahar's voice—cool, flat, seemingly without emotion, his 'report' voice, Imrahil had called it once—dispassionately relate the incidents of Friday night, including the precise content of the insult and his own response, in full, promise included.  
  
"That is why," he explained, "I would not speak the next morning. 'Twas done with for me—Elethil had owned his words already, and we had an agreement that it should not go further. And in truth, the whole evening was hardly well done on either side—what Elethil said was true enough on one count, and for the rest, 'tis nothing I have not heard before, and less creative than many."   
  
At that, there was a slight, uncomfortable rustling in the seats across the way; Peloren, who had sat inwardly cringing through Andrahar's recounting, glanced up to see Ornendil grimace, and Théorwyn scowl, while Illian was rubbing at the furrow in his brow in a pained fashion. Valandil's expression was taut, and the prince, although his expression seemed unchanged—not for naught was Adrahil reputed one of Gondor's best negotiators—but Peloren sensed that he, too, was unhappy with this pronouncement. He darted a quick look at Andrahar, who sat straight in his chair, his chin raised ever so slightly, and felt a certain admiration for the challenge in those words and their straight-forward delivery.  _Nothing I have not heard before_ , after all, was an indictment of the notion that anything deserving of attention had occurred on Friday, for it had been nothing out of the ordinary.   
  
Indeed, Adrahil replied, after a moment, "Your point is well taken, Andrahar, thank you. Elethil, have you anything to say—whether to contest or confirm or to add anything?"  
  
Elethil stiffened slightly, but then he stood slowly, despite Adrahil's assurance that this was no trial. "Yes, my lord, I do have something to say." He paused, and drew a breath, then turned, surprisingly, to Andrahar, who cocked his head, curious if a bit wary. Elethil seemed to shrink into himself a bit, but forged ahead determinedly.   
  
"When we returned this Lithe past, Peloren and I took an oath that we should be courteous to all our brothers, esquires and knights—both. We were not to do or say anything that would not be meet," he said tautly, and Peloren, staring up at him, saw him swallow hard and then Elethil bowed his head. "I broke that oath two nights ago. In fact, I've broken it more often than that, but two nights ago, I spoke very poorly and rudely of Andrahar… and he happened to hear it. I do not know everything that is being said about this, or how exactly it got out to others, but  _that_  is the truth. And I am sorry, for they were unworthy thoughts, and but the latest in a long line of offense."  
  
Which confession constituted perhaps the longest speech Peloren had ever heard his friend give before so many others, as Elethil bowed to Andrahar, then hurriedly sat down again, face flushed. Peloren bit his lip, wanting to reach out, to offer a hand or some consolation, but under the gazes of so august a body of observers, he restrained himself, uncertain what was permitted or proper.  
  
"I see," Adrahil said, eyeing Elethil thoughtfully a moment. Then: "Andrahar?"  
  
"It should be said as well, my lord prince, that if Elethil broke his word, I have not kept mine either," Andrahar said quietly, and gestured to Captain Valandil. "For I was told to do what I could to show that all this old affair was settled between Peloren, Elethil, and myself." He paused, then looked at Elethil, who glanced up when Peloren nudged him gently, and found himself under dark-eyed scrutiny ere Andrahar continued: "I do accept Elethil's apology, and I thank him for it, but he is hardly the only one who has failed in this. For what it is worth to others, we spoke yesterday, the three of us—for my part, I hold all such grievances settled and do not look to find further trouble between us."  
  
"And you agree, Peloren, Elethil?" And when both esquires nodded eagerly, he glanced to either side, at Ornendil and Valandil, and some silent communication seemed to pass between them. For Adrahil nodded then, and said briskly, "Very well. Then if you tell us that honor is satisfied, or at least, that mutual dishonor cancels all debts, and that grievance truly is settled among the three of you now, we shall say nothing more of it."  
  
At this pronouncement, Elethil sighed softly, and Peloren felt the tension in the pit of his stomach unwind in a brief nauseated flutter that dissipated swiftly. Andrahar simply bowed his head, as if in thanks, and sat back in his chair, but he, too, seemed to relax slightly. Adrahil smiled and shook his head.  
  
"Take a moment, gentlemen, but though that matter shall not dog you further, there are still aspects of it that require clarification, and there are, I believe, still many tales to be told. Andrahar, you have said, and the masters, Captain Valandil, and I concur, that what happened on Friday was sadly no extraordinary incident—it was merely the one that was brought to our attention," the prince said, voice hardening a bit, and his grey-eyed gaze swept the circle of men gathered about him. "It pleases me that the three of you have made your peace with each other, but you are only three among hundreds involved in this, however marginally, and we must be able to address them all.  
  
"Therefore, let us hear the rest—Andrahar, we will begin with you, since you have been at the center of trouble since you arrived in Dol Amroth, I fear. Speak—and this time," Adrahil warned, "guard no silences."  
  
Andrahar, who must have expected something of this sort, given Ornendil's similar admonition the other day, nonetheless seemed to steel himself just a little. But then he bowed his head, and replied, "As my lord prince commands." Then after a brief pause, he began to speak.  
  
  
Thus commenced a long, uncomfortable night, for it was not Andrahar alone who had a tale to tell—Peloren and Elethil were called upon to speak, as well, and there was this time no retreat into silence where others were concerned.   
  
"This is not a private matter," Ornendil prompted Elethil at one point, when Elethil hesitated over names.   
  
Perhaps not—undoubtedly not, but that did not make it any less queasy an affair to speak of incidents and episodes years in the past, or to remember, in light of the present, how little such things had meant at the time, for all that everyone had known they had to be kept under cover. Not that Peloren had been unaware of this: the nagging, gnawing sense of shame, of ambivalence, of the failure to fall to one side or another when in the night or after some particularly painful incident of late he lay and wondered what he was to think—all these were testimony to that silent, constant, ever-felt grating of past and present knowledge.   
  
Still, it  _was_  different now. For he was not alone in his bed, or scrubbing pots or latrines while spinning out endless unanswerable—or rather, all too answerable, if one had the will—questions. It was not only Elethil and him shut up in one of their rooms, brooding on their own misery. Now everything was exposed. Everything was  _recorded_ : although there were no scribes present, Illian's pen scratched relentlessly away, taking all of it down, while Ornendil and the Prince made less frantic notes for themselves. There was no taking anything back, no rescinding that was not itself marked down by Master Illian's industrious hand at least, which brought strangely to Peloren's mind the Houses of Healing, its healers taking bits of sickness from the sick—looking at little swabs of blood or vomitous remains or bottles of reluctantly given piss and pondering it all, storing it away somewhere and leaving the giver feeling oddly violated at times, as if his malady would never truly vanish, for evidence of it would remain in healers' notebooks and storerooms. Nor did it always end after that initial offering.  
  
"A little more," the healers would urge. "Can you give a little more?" And then they would force liquids on the exhausted patient 'til the poor body complied. Peloren thought of tables and lying facedown on them while healers prodded tender parts and discussed diseased or injured tailbones, and he felt his stomach turn over a bit when Adrahil's gaze turned once more to him.  _A little more_ , he thought, and found it more than somewhat appalling just how much he could vomit forth when prodded.  
  
He was relieved therefore when their betters allowed them to fall silent at last in order to make their own reports, and to give their own impressions of how matters stood in higher circles with regard to the presence of a Southron in the ranks. And as Peloren listened, and watched Illian fill sheet after sheet of paper, something like wonderment came over him.  _All of this has really happened,_  he thought, and found himself caught between amazement and horror.  _How can it all have happened?_  
  
"Peloren?" It was Kendrion who spoke softly, and he blinked, then looked over at the healer, who was giving him a concerned look. "How do you feel, lad?"  
  
"I—it's not my head." He was aware of a pause in the discussion, and of eyes resting now upon him, and he quickly drew himself up to apologize. "I am sorry, my lords, it is only…"  
  
"Only what?" Kendrion asked, when he faltered.   
  
Peloren gestured vaguely at the stack of papers by Illian's elbow, and managed, after a moment, "How can all of this happen?"  
  
At this frankly bewildered question, Ornendil and Adrahil exchanged a knowing look, and then the Prince replied: "'Tis a question we should like answered as well. But perhaps we shall leave that for another day—you and Andrahar especially ought to rest tonight, I am sure. Master Kendrion?"  
  
"The second watch is drawing to a close, my lord prince," the healer said, by way of discreet suggestion. Adrahil nodded.   
  
"Very well, then. We will speak again later. Elethil, Peloren, Andrahar," the prince said, "thank you for your assistance, but go and get some rest. We shall speak again at need. Good night."   
  
The three young men rose at that, and bowed, and murmured their good nights, then gratefully filed out the door. In the hall beyond, Peloren slid an arm about Elethil's shoulders—brief, bracing embrace—as they all made their way to the stairs. No one spoke; everyone seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, 'til they reached the first floor and the parting of ways. There, as if by unspoken agreement, they paused, and looked upon each other.   
  
Elethil looked weary and disheartened, which concerned Peloren; Andrahar was harder to read, but only 'til Peloren took note of his hands. Despite the sling, Andrahar was playing with the end of his belt, worrying at it in a way that suggested he was uncomfortable as well, which lent an unsettling force to his intent scrutiny of his erstwhile peers.   
  
"So," Peloren said after awhile, just to break the silence; "what do you think will come of this?"  
  
"'Tis hard to say," Andrahar replied at length. "Prince Adrahil, though, does nothing lightly." He shrugged. "Perhaps something will change."  
  
"Elethil? Did the prince say aught of that to you? You were with him earlier," Peloren asked, and sensed Andrahar, too, leaning a little forward, curious.  
  
But Elethil simply shook his head. "No," he said, in a low voice. "We did not speak of that."  
  
"What, then?" Peloren pressed gently.   
  
At that, Elethil looked from Peloren to Andrahar, and then away, as he said, "I would rather not say right now, Pel. It is—I am very tired. I think I should like it to wait, 'til morning at least."  
  
"Of course," Peloren said quickly, but could not forebear a worried glance sideways at Andrahar, whose expression was inscrutable. But the other nodded, and after a moment said:  
  
"A good night to you both, then."   
  
"Good night," Peloren replied, and slowly turned away, feeling, despite all confessions, the tug of unfinished business. But Elethil was not the only one who was weary, and as the two of them made their way to the Fledglings' Wing, Peloren found himself stifling yawns. Beside him, Elethil walked with his eyes downcast, a still anxious presence, and Peloren thought of Imrahil and Aldan keeping watch, of ever vigilant healers just out of sight, perhaps, and worry gnawed a hollow in his breast.  
  
Which was why, when they reached the Fledglings' Wing, and Peloren's door, Peloren laid a hand on Elethil's shoulder, and urged: "Stay here tonight."  
  
Elethil sighed. "Pel—" he began.  
  
"Please." And something in his voice or face must have moved his friend, or else Elethil was, perhaps, not so eager to be alone with his thoughts as he had given out earlier. For after a moment, he acquiesced.   
  
"All right," he said, and followed Peloren in.   
  
It was dark, and at some point, it had begun to rain: a steady drizzle that beat gently against the shutters. Peloren lit the candle in its sconce by the washstand and turned down the sheets. Silently, they undressed, Elethil folding clothing and setting it neatly on Peloren's chair, Peloren less neatly tossing his borrowed things into the basket of laundry. But he took his time about it, made a check of his room by habit, so that by the time he was done, Elethil had already slid into bed and taken the place nearest to the wall. Peloren crawled in after him, the two of them shifting about a bit, seeking the most comfortable way to spend this night, for esquires' cots were narrow, and without the aid of drunken stupor, did not easily sleep two men.   
  
They ended spooned up against each other, this time with Peloren on the outside. And he sighed as he closed his eyes, one arm tightening about Elethil, who grunted, but then seemed to settle. Outside, muted thunder rumbled, and the rain thickened, grew fiercer. But neither esquire heard it—nestled warmly together beneath the blankets, they slept soundly, waiting on the dawn.   
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
In other rooms, however, thunder had a wakeful audience. Back in Adrahil's study, Ornendil glanced out the window as lightning sheeted the sky, illuminating raindrops as they slid down the glass, and he counted to ten before the thunder pealed out.   
  
With the departure of the esquires and Andrahar, the prince's remaining guests had taken the opportunity to stand up, stretch out a bit. No one left, however, knowing full well that their night's business had not yet come to an end. The pause, however, was welcome, and Adrahil had offered drinks to any who wanted one. Ornendil had contemplated the idea, but rejected it eventually. His wife, Helevrian, knew very well that late nights were a part and parcel of an Armsmaster's duties, and usually she did not complain of them. However, she was not nearly so tolerant of drinking late at night, even on feast days, and Ornendil was not in the mood to face wifely remonstrances over such a matter.   
  
Théorwyn, however, took advantage of the offer, as did Valandil and Master Kendrion, and Adrahil poured himself a drink as well before the six of them sat down once more. For a time, there was silence, but then the prince spoke.  
  
"Well, gentlemen, we have certainly heard more than we might wish of failures in our ranks, but also generally—the court is no kinder to Andrahar than are the esquires, and Elethil's father is, unfortunately, a problem about which we can do very little, I fear," Adrahil said. "Nevertheless, we must decide what is to be done to curb the abuse Andrahar has suffered, but also to try prevent Elethil from making Meldarion's solution his own."  
  
"How did it go with him earlier, my lord prince?" Ornendil asked, for he had been the one to tell Adrahil of Elethil's situation, almost as soon as he had returned to Dol Amroth.   
  
"Let me think on this, and I shall speak with him," the prince had said upon hearing of the trouble. "Perhaps something can be arranged."  
  
Ornendil had agreed, though he had wondered what Adrahil meant by 'arranged.' Now, the prince replied: "'Tis difficult to say. A lad driven so far cannot but suffer doubts about himself, doubts which may make it impossible for him to take up his former place without undue risk. I can do little about that, I fear, for doubt goes deep in Elethil, even before all of this—the lord of Caldor is a hard man to all, and perhaps especially to his sons. But I have given Elethil a set of choices: he may decide to take a place here in Dol Amroth's court—a lad willing to be taught is always one we can use. Or, so long as there is nothing to fault in his sword-work, I have said that after the summer trials, depending on the outcome and his own wishes, I will have him placed with one of the infantry companies. I hope he will no longer feel his back is to a wall, therefore—that he will feel that there is a way forward for him, come what may."   
  
At that, Ornendil and Valandil exchanged somewhat uncomfortable looks. "If he can be made to see there are other ways than the sword," Valandil said after a moment, "then that is good. But if it becomes known what he tried to do, and he still unblooded, my lord prince, I do not know how well he would be received by other Swan Knights."  
  
Adrahil inclined his head. "True enough, but I do not see that that  _needs_  to be said. Peloren and the others were frightened, yes, but in point of fact, Elethil returned of his own will. Simply because we feared the worst does not mean that he intended it."  
  
"We should lie for him, then, my lord?" Valandil challenged.   
  
"I think at this point, we owe all concerned the courtesy of refusing to allow an incident that should have been settled more than a year ago to claim any more victims," Adrahil replied firmly. Valandil still seemed unhappy with this, but he knew that tone of voice and look. And perhaps, too, the prince's words made some impression, for after a moment, he acquiesced.   
  
"If he passes the trials, then," the captain of the Swan Knights said.   
  
"That is all I ask, captain. That, and that we keep in mind that this is not a reason to test his mettle further—Elethil has endured more than enough, and more than many others. Let us not mistake, then, the effect of our own errors for evidence of a need to subject him to further probing, as if he has followed the same course of training that all other esquires have followed," Adrahil admonished, taking each man's eye in turn, 'til he was satisfied his point had been made.  
  
"Very well," the prince said after a moment. "Let us speak then of some of these others, since we have the space. Illian, Ornendil, you have been inquiring among the esquires and elsewhere—what have you discovered of how precisely Friday's encounter in the hall came to Harthil's ears and into your hands?"  
  
Illian glanced at Ornendil and inclined his head fractionally, deferring to the Armsmaster. "What Andrahar told us tonight fits with what we had found," Ornendil reported. "The only esquire who saw anything directly was Uilovar, and he did not see Andrahar and Elethil and Peloren together, or hear anything of what passed between them. He left Master Harthil and allowed Andrahar to pass him, then saw Peloren helping Elethil up from the floor further down the hall. He drew his own conclusions and, uneasy, told a few of his friends.   
  
"From there, the tale made its way to Torlas, among others. But according to Uilovar, it was Torlas who approached him and suggested someone ought to know of his concerns, It was also Torlas who persuaded him to approach Master Harthil, who—" and here, Ornendil's tone acquired a sardonic note "—was recommended on account of Harthil's clear support of Andrahar."  
  
At that, Théorwyn snorted and muttered something undoubtedly rude in Rohirric, and Adrahil sighed softly. Illian grimaced in distaste. "And what of Celdir?" Master Kendrion spoke up suddenly. The healer spread his hands slightly as heads turned, and said, "From all I have ever seen, Celdir and Torlas are thick as thieves. Iordel, too. Did Torlas act alone in this?"  
  
"So far as Torlas is willing to admit, yes," Ornendil replied, and got another round of sighs that echoed his frustration. But the Armsmaster shook his head. "So he maintains. They are friends, of course, and we know that friendship has stymied many a search for truth. But he holds it was his idea—if he is covering for Celdir, either he believes nothing will come of this if only he holds out, or else he does not know what the consequences might be."  
  
"Or else he knows them, and chooses to keep Celdir out of his account," Illian added, darkly.   
  
"There is that possibility," Ornendil acknowledged, unhappily.  
  
"And you do believe that Torlas at least was malicious in suggesting Harthil?" Adrahil asked, sharply.  
  
"It would beggar belief to think it otherwise, given his enmity for Andrahar, and lately, as report has it, also Peloren and Elethil," Ornendil replied. But he sighed and admitted, "We have no proof of it, however."  
  
"Even were they innocent of all partisan interest," Illian put in, "we know Harthil does not care for Andrahar. I cannot but think that, appearances aside, he used the complaint to attack Andrahar—we know now that he did ask questions about him during an examination, which is hardly appropriate." The Master of Records shook his head regretfully. "Where Harthil is concerned, I fear, I should have been more vigilant—I told Andrahar at the start of term to come to me for help if he needed it, but when he did not, I did not press him, either. I thought it was enough to alert him to Harthil's dislike, but I should have kept a closer eye on Harthil." Illian grimaced. "'Tis an oversight I fear I may have committed many times since Harthil began teaching the esquires."  
  
"Harthil is my affair to deal with," Adrahil said then, and Ornendil felt a slight shiver go down his spine. For all that Adrahil was usually the most congenial of men, it needed a fool to think him soft, and there was a chill, dangerous note in his voice that suggested Harthil would be wise to keep his head down the next time he entered his liege-lord's presence. Illian merely bowed his head, seeming just as glad to leave Harthil to the prince, and Ornendil could not blame him. Men like Harthil, who made the secrets of others their business, were dangerous to deal with, even when they shared one's own loyalties.   
  
Esquires, however, were another matter. "I will have a word with Celdir, whatever comes of this," Ornendil said. "Assuming we cannot prove he directed Torlas to bring Uilovar and a complaint to Master Harthil, he ought still to know we have an eye on him. It may convince him to curb his spite and keep it to himself, even if I doubt it would rid him of it. Some hatreds go too deep."  
  
"And if that is true," Théorwyn asked, in an uncharacteristically subdued voice, "what are we to do, in the end? We wish to put an end to the sort of strife and dissension that has surrounded Andrahar since he arrived, and which lies at the back of all our more recent troubles. But where strife breeds from hatred long ingrained against our enemies, we cannot change every mind, yet can we afford to do less?"  
  
"Dol Amroth can afford it, or so I believe," Adrahil replied, his grey gaze sweeping over the assembled officers. "It has always been the privilege of the Prince of Dol Amroth to refuse admittance to or dismiss from the esquires' ranks any man he deemed unworthy of it, all apart from the judgment of the masters. It will henceforth be unacceptable to me that any candidate for a white belt be unwilling to give Andrahar the respect he is due—I do not care whether he likes Andrahar or not; but let it come out that his dislike has at root a hatred for Haradrim in general, and he will no longer be welcome here. I will make this clear to the fathers who send word to me of their intentions to send their sons.   
  
"It will cost us—there will undoubtedly be some who refuse to accept such terms. To keep up our numbers, we shall have to turn to the enlisted men more often, which shall require us to bear more of the expense of training and equipage, especially at the beginning. But we can do this. Beyond that, however, it should be made clear to sergeants and to officers as well: he who cannot put such ill-feeling will not attain to any rank."  
  
"And what of those who have it already?" Kendrion asked.  
  
"There we come to the harder question," Adrahil admitted, and frowned, steepling his fingers before him as he looked to Valandil. "None of us wishes to have to weigh five, ten, thirty years or more, perhaps, of good service against an unyielding mistrust that, at least for the moment, is given to but one junior Swan Knight out of all our company, and which otherwise is, alas, often useful and the natural product of a long history of warfare. Yet we do have, also, a number of younger men we hope to promote when the opportunity and need arises, do we not?"  
  
Valandil sighed softly. "We do have a list of such men, 'tis true. But if we aim at  _all_  those who mistrust the Haradrim, there may be few men left to choose from, whether already commissioned or otherwise. And there is still the question of bringing them to understand the problem, though perhaps that shall be easier done now than in the past. But beyond that, can we make so broad a stroke? I do not wish to approach men with a reproach or worse with no specific incident to speak of."   
  
"I agree that we must tread carefully in this," Adrahil replied. "Yet not so carefully that nothing is achieved."  
  
For a time after that, no one spoke. It was as if everyone were hoping someone else would do so, and find some way forward, though Adrahil seemed to be watching his officers rather closely, and when that grey-eyed gaze fell upon him, the Armsmaster endured it for a little while, ere he looked elsewhere. Outside, the rain came still down, though more gently now, and as Ornendil watched it streak the window, he thought of his own complicity hitherto, and came at length to a decision.  
  
"Valandil is right—we will need to look first to those men of whom we can make some specific complaint, to make clear to others that in the future, there will be consequences for those will not see the problem at hand," he said. "That must be our aim: to make those who follow us understand that it  _is_  a failure of chivalry and of honor to think so poorly of the Haradrim who are our enemies that one of their number who has given his allegiance to us should be thought of and treated as if he bore some taint within himself. For the moment, accepting what Andrahar has said as true—and I think we have enough evidence, even from looking simply at ourselves, to say that he is right to paint so grim a picture—then we cannot hope to turn every man in the company around, nor can we dismiss everyone who fails to do so. We should lose too many. But that does not mean we cannot redress wrong, or that caution need stymie efforts to root out the deeper problem."  
  
"Continue," Adrahil urged quietly, his eyes intent as he gazed upon the Armsmaster, who got the slightly disconcerting impression that the prince had been waiting for just this speech.  _But never mind that,_  he told himself sternly,  _this is about duty; it matters not if Adrahil anticipates it._  
  
So Ornendil nodded, and drew a breath against faltering. "Hear me out, then, in full, my lords," he said. "Here is what I propose…"


	12. Sea Changes

The morning had begun late, when Master Kendrion knocked on Peloren's door, waking both Peloren and Elethil. The master healer had blinked a moment to find both of them there and rubbing their eyes, but then he had smiled, and said, "Good morning to you both. Well, at least I need not walk up the hall to find Elethil. May I enter?"  
  
Peloren had stood aside without thinking twice—what reason had he to refuse Master Kendrion?—and he had submitted to the healer's examination of him without protest. His head did not ache, which had pleased him, though he had chosen not to brave the mirror this morning. Instead, he had simply splashed water on his face and carefully used the towel on badly bruised flesh once Kendrion had pronounced him well enough to face the day.   
  
"Both of you know you are to remain off the lists until further notice. But the prince and Master Ornendil have asked me to tell you that you are not to leave the keep today, unless it is to visit the stables. They may have more questions for you, and wish you easily found," Kendrion had informed them both.   
  
"Will we have to stay here until they come to some decision, sir?" Peloren had asked, as he pulled on a shirt and trousers drawn from the basket of dirty laundry under his bed.  
  
Kendrion had shaken his head. "I doubt it. 'Tis just for today, I think. And you may be surprised: decisions may come more swiftly than you imagine, Peloren."  
  
"Will there be a healer about today?" Elethil had asked then from where he sat on Peloren's bed, his voice low. Peloren's jaw tightened slightly at that, and he had looked to Master Kendrion, who frowned—no doubt over Elethil's demoralized tone. But after a long, scrutinizing look at Elethil, he had glanced thoughtfully to Peloren, who straightened under the master healer's regard.  
  
"If you will keep Peloren's company today, then no," Kendrion had replied. "Have I your word?"  
  
Elethil had bitten back a frown, Peloren could tell, but then he nodded. "Yes, sir."  
  
"Very well, then. Should either of you need anything, however—should your head start to hurt, Peloren, or should either of you have any other complaint, whether some bodily pain or a need to speak of things in confidence—then do not delay, but come you to the Houses and find me," Kendrion replied.   
  
"Aye, sir," the two of them had chorused, and Kendrion, content, had departed.   
  
In the silence that followed, Peloren went to the window, undid the latch on the shutters, and pushed them open, admitting the hazy daylight. The sky was streaked with clouds still, though a stiff breeze promised to shepherd them inland before noon. Peloren stood there for a time, letting his senses take their fill of the day, before he turned and walked over to his clothespress and opened the doors, eyeing his wardrobe. Since he was banned from the lists and denied the freedom of the city and country beyond the walls of the keep, he did not bother with his uniform. Instead, he chose an older shirt and trousers—not yet stable-wear, but destined one day for it—and gathered a few other necessary garments to hand.   
  
Then closing the clothespress, he turned to Elethil, and said, "I'm for a bath. And then I've laundry to do. Coming?"  
  
Elethil bowed his head a moment, running his hands through his hair, but then he reached for his shirt and tunic and stockings that he had laid on Peloren's chair and began drawing them on. Once finished, he stepped into his boots, then stooped and rooted about under the bed 'til he found Peloren's laundry basket. He dragged it forth and rose to his feet with it. "I'll help you scrub," he offered.   
  
Peloren smiled in response, though privately he worried. But he kept worry behind his teeth and gestured towards the door. "After you," he said, and followed his friend out.  
  
  
  
Peloren ended by taking longer in the baths than he had originally intended—having nowhere to go, and nothing truly pressing to do, he lounged a bit, and took awhile with the bath brush, grateful finally to be able to rid himself of the sense that blood lingered still upon him. The quick bath he had managed in Calardin had been just enough to make himself presentable, but he had felt dirty all the same.   
  
After he had dried himself off, rewound bandages with Elethil's help, and dressed in fresh clothing, the two of them descended to the laundry and did a brutally swift cleansing of Peloren's clothes, borrowed and otherwise. They worked with the hard-won efficiency of esquires who had seen entirely too much of the washroom in the past year, wrung everything out, and hung it neatly out to dry on the lines.   
  
And then they were left with time heavy on their hands. Fortunately, after giving some thought to the matter, Peloren remembered himself of his promise the night before. "I have an errand to the stables," he said, but then added: "First, though, the kitchens."   
  
  
The kitchens were busy already—or rather, still busy, for to feed so many thrice a day was quite the task, and the cooks had been hard at work since before dawn. Esquires who missed a meal generally were greeted with a few choice words about timeliness and directed to the night hearth, with its ever-ready porridge.   
  
However, word had apparently got out about Friday night's misadventures, for when they appeared in the doorway to beg some bread, Cook took one look, then quickly bustled them over to a preparation table. At her command, two lasses appeared to clear the table, and in short order Cook herself brought them not only porridge and bread, but also a few sausages and some of the last of the winter store of fruits.   
  
Elethil, who took a sip of the milk laid out for them, blinked, and leaned forward to whisper, "She put honey in this!"  
  
"Mayhap Mistress Falwen is right, and there's some use for scars," Peloren replied, and was pleased when Elethil smiled a little at the jest.   
  
They ate quickly, the mark of appreciative esquire appetites. Peloren, despite inhaling his breakfast, nevertheless carefully kept half of a dried apple back, tucking it into his scrip as he rose. Then, since it never hurt to be in Cook's good graces, they took up their plates and slipped into the scullery and cleaned their own dishes. They thanked Cook politely, got a wave and a nod in response, and then hurried off to the stables.   
  
There were puddles in the yard this morning, and a stiff, cold breeze from over the bay. Clouds glided down the sky, passing swiftly overhead and across the sun's face from time to time, casting luminous shadows. Peloren pulled his cloak a little more closely about himself, stepping lively about the puddles, and spared a moment's pitying thought for Imrahil, Aldan, and the others, who no doubt had already run a few miles through muddy fields and now were at the mercy of the Armsmaster or the Master of Horses.   
  
The stable at least was warmer, though quieter than usual—there were rows of empty stalls, for despite the weather, knights and esquires alike were afield with their horses. Peloren made for Lightfall's stall, hurrying when Lightfall greeted him from afar.   
  
"Hush, lad," he admonished when he reached him, catching the animal's head and stroking Lightfall's long face gently. "Ssshh. Here," he said, quickly retrieving the bit of apple he had saved. His horse sniffed, and then daintily licked the offering right out of his hand, munching happily. Peloren smiled slightly. "There's my lad. I told you I would come today." He looked over at Elethil, who was leaning back against the stable wall, watching, and said: "I'll help you brush Greywind if you'll help me with Lightfall."  
  
Thus in short order, they stood to either side of Peloren's horse, brushing his dappled coat, while Lightfall basked in the attention, tail swishing idly. And as Peloren plied his brush, he watched his friend. To all appearances, Elethil was himself, had been himself, more or less, since Kendrion had left them—strangely between speech and speechlessness, he was brisk with the brush, though not careless or hasty. Absorbed in the chore, he only occasionally reprimanded Lightfall when the horse nosed about his person in search of more treats.   
  
In the quiet industry of hands and company of friends bred peaceful contentment—so Peloren had ever been taught, and found it often true. But this morning, in light of all that had happened in the past months, and especially of the past few days, he found it precarious, elusive—as much hope and wish as reality, and he dared not ask after Elethil's state of mind, fearful lest the question itself undo everything, if there were any contentment to undo.   
  
And so he hung on little signs, or rather, their absences: on the fact that no anxious, moody furrow marked Elethil's brow, that he seemed less tired than he had of late, that (perhaps in the absence of a healer and with someone to 'distract' him) he seemed, if not relieved, neither upset nor broody. Though silence had never itself been a measure of Elethil's mood, Peloren thought it seemed easy enough.   
  
Nevertheless, he wondered what passed behind those eyes and the steady scratch of brush bristles down Lightfall's back. But Elethil said nothing, and Peloren did not wish to give the impression of being overly concerned, of mistrusting his friend. Above all, he did not wish to wound anew pride that had already been shattered once with his questions. He therefore carefully said nothing and strove to keep his attention on Lightfall, who, being a horse, was unburdened by such anxieties and fears as plagued Men and well pleased by his master's assiduous care and concern.   
  
When, however, Lightfall had been brushed to a glossy sheen, and Peloren had carefully run a hand down his legs, checked his hoofs, and inspected the stall, silently blessing whatever stable lad had cleaned it in his absence, and the two of them made their farewells to the gelding, Elethil gave his friend a sideways look. At once too knowing and ambivalent, it perhaps said more than intended, for in it gaped a woundedness. It was as if a turn of the head had revealed another face, or another side of his face, scarred and misshapen—a map of the soul's fragility and Peloren felt his cheeks heat. He felt guilty, then, for looking, the more so for seeing, but how could he possibly refrain from either, knowing what he knew, worried as he was for Elethil?   
  
Elethil said nothing, however. It was habit, perhaps, or perhaps it was simply that there was no real need to speak further at the moment. Was it not enough that they knew how matters stood, and knew that the other knew as well? With no way forward, and no return to what had been, silence seemed best for the moment, and they groomed Greywind without uttering a word.   
  
  
  
Afterwards, they left the stables and they wandered for a time, though they kept to the well-trodden ways of the keep, obedient to the Prince's command. Still unsettled, they were not much inclined to sit the whole day indoors, and after awhile, on unspoken agreement, they climbed up onto the ramparts, to the broad platform over the inner gates where archers could stand and shoot down should any enemy come so far. On a winter's day such as this, it seemed nearly deserted, with but three guards stationed there: one on each approach, and none of them at all interested in a wayward pair of esquires.   
  
Peloren climbed up into a crenel, then onto the top of a merlon, while Elethil, perhaps unwilling to rouse further fears, settled safely below his friend, looping his arms about his knees as he sat with his back to the rampart wall. There they sat and stared out sightlessly, or watched the shadows slowly dwindling as the sun rose higher. The day grew less chill, though the breeze was still cold and brisk, whipping at cloaks and hair.  _Summer is still three months to come,_  Peloren thought, longing suddenly to make good on his promise to revisit Calardin, for it was pleasant to nap on the sun-warmed sand in the afternoon.   
  
Of course, this summer might well be different, assuming he passed his trials. Who knew whether he would be stationed at Dol Amroth, or whether he might be sent elsewhere, to some other garrison further south? There was always Harondor, after all, and Swan Knights might also find themselves among marines, guarding more shores than those about the city.   
  
 _And what about Elya? Where will he be?_  he wondered. He longed to know what Prince Adrahil had told him last night, before their council had begun, but he did not dare to ask at the moment. Kendrion had said, though, that they were to stay off the lists for a time, not forever, and he had not said differently to Elethil, which must mean  _something_ , though Peloren did not know what. But whatever that something might be, it seemed that at least Elethil would not be leaving Dol Amroth soon. That was surely good, was it not?  
  
And yet, that was not enough to relieve Elethil of whatever care or anxiety burdened him still, and so Peloren could not rest content either, shifting restlessly on his high and stony seat.   
  
"Did I ever give you the Yuletide gift I found?" Peloren asked abruptly, apropos of nothing. Elethil looked up at him, startled, and then he frowned slightly, seeming to rummage through memory.   
  
"No," he said after a moment; "I do not think so."  
  
"I must have forgot all about it, between Andrahar and everything else," Peloren mused.   
  
"What was it?" Elethil asked.  
  
"A pipe. I found it at an instrument maker's stall—nicely varnished. 'Tis a bit lower-voiced than that small one you have, and sweeter-sounding, too," Peloren replied.   
  
"Mm." Elethil bowed his head, staring at the stonework. Then: "I am not very good at piping, you know."  
  
"Well, if you practiced more often," Peloren said. And then, when this brought no response, he added, a little hesitantly, "I thought it might cheer you now and again."  
  
A silence, then: "Do you know how I learned?"  
  
It was Peloren's turn to frown, and he did so, tipping his head back a bit as he recalled the first time he had learned of his friend's hobby. "Your father's old beekeeper taught you. What was his name? Tilimar?"  
  
"Tilandir. Aye, he taught me. He thought the bees gave more honey for a well-piped tune." Elethil shrugged. "Mayhap he was right; I never knew, because he always played for them, every night. I liked him—he was gentle with them, for all their stings. I badgered him into teaching me how to play. He did not want to at first."  
  
"Why not?" Peloren asked.  
  
"Because," Elethil replied simply, "a lord's son has his proper duty to land and liege-lord, which is different from that of peasants or court harpers." He sighed softly. "Father wanted his sons to be knights. When he learned of the lessons, he sent Tilandir away. And he thrashed me for shirking and for disobeying him."   
  
Perched above him, Peloren silently cursed his own clumsiness that had blundered right into so unhappy a memory, all the while wincing on behalf of the terrified boy he could all too easily imagine his friend had been.   
  
Not that he was entirely surprised by the revelation—that was the trouble, for Elethil's infrequent comments about his father suggested a hard, unyielding man, the sort of man Peloren knew clung to the little farming manors that dotted Anfalas. His own family ruled one such, though Hathwyn was a little larger, a little nearer to Dol Amroth—near enough that a bit of the city wafted in from time to time in the form of merchants taking a boat across the way, bringing with them a taste for the palpably finer things and a certain something  _more_. A taste for an air less pure, perhaps, or less harsh—for whatever it was, the lack of which made men like Elethil's father.  
  
"Father worried I was soft-headed as a boy," Elethil murmured suddenly, drawing Peloren from his thoughts. "He feared I would not make much of a knight if I had a harper's restless hands and head full of songs. I liked playing though," he said, a little wistfully. "I think that small pipe was the first thing I bought on my own, when I came here."  
  
"Do not go back to Caldor, Elya," Peloren pleaded softly. And when his friend let his head loll back against the stone, and gazed up at him, he urged, "Surely some company here in Dol Amroth could use you, if it comes to that."  
  
"Maybe. Until they learned how I came among them," Elethil replied, then added: "And they  _would_  learn of it, you know."  
  
"The Prince has not cast you out, Elya, not yet," Peloren reminded his friend, doggedly.   
  
"No, he has not," Elethil agreed quietly, and closed his eyes against the sun's light that fell bright upon his upturned face.   
  
They spoke no more after that, but eventually, they left their perch above the gates and made their way back down with the noon bells to join their peers for lunch. Imrahil spotted them first and hailed the pair of them, waving them over to join him and Aldan and Teilin and Ambor.   
  
"Imri," Peloren said, and nodded to the others. "Good afternoon." Elethil simply nodded. But before further greetings could be exchanged, the Prince and Princess arrived in the hall. To the sighing rustle of cloaks and scraping of benches and chairs, everyone rose and, as Adrahil and Olwen took their places, turned to face west.   
  
After the full count of five, and the prince's word of release—"So let the daytide gather us"—the meal began and everyone took their seats once more as pages came about, bearing the midday meal with them. And as dishes began to circulate, Imrahil smiled at them and said:  
  
"'Tis good to see you both back."  
  
"Aye," Teilin agreed, before either Peloren or Elethil could reply. "We wondered if you two would show after this morning, though," he said, grinning. "Thought the masters might be keeping you in their pockets."  
  
"Or the healers' pockets," Aldan put in, giving Peloren a critical appraisal, ere he, too, smiled, seeming relieved, and said, "You don't look half bad for a man who found a Corsair raid."  
  
"I wouldn't know," Peloren replied, as he helped himself to the beets being passed about. "Haven't seen a mirror yet."  
  
"And he's modest," Ambor chuckled, shaking his head.   
  
"He's famished," Imrahil corrected, looking his two friends over. "Both of them are—you must be, for you missed supper last night."  
  
"Well, your father did feed us somewhat," Peloren reassured him, for they had taken time for some light fare the night before, in between confessions. "And Cook took care of us this morning. We thought of you—sweating on the fields and running hither and thither." Groans issued from the others, and Aldan threw a napkin at him in disgust. Peloren grinned, and glanced at Elethil, who seemed absorbed in stirring his soup, though the corners of his mouth twitched a bit.   
  
"There is definitely somewhat afoot, if my aches have aught to tell," Aldan said, by way of making banter speak to more serious things. He hesitated, glancing from Peloren and Elethil to Imrahil, and then back again, ere he seemed to come to some decision. Lowering his voice, that others further up the table should not overhear, he asked, "I do not suppose there is anything you could tell us?"  
  
Peloren looked sideways at Elethil, and then at Imrahil, who raised a brow, ere he replied, "I do not think so. That is, I do not think we should talk of some things  _here_ …"  
  
"Had to try," Aldan replied, ere he turned his attention to his lunch.   
  
For a time, conversation lapsed, everyone being concerned with filling his stomach after the rigors of the morning. But eventually, Imrahil sighed and pushed his bowl away, and after a quick glance up to the high table, he said, "Well, I suppose you learned how things went here in Dol Amroth after we parted Friday night. But what happened to you and Andra in Calardin?"  
  
Peloren gave the young prince a slightly puzzled look as he hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of bread. "Surely you must have heard something, Imri," he said. "Master Ornendil brought most everyone home the next day."  
  
"Oh aye," Imrahil replied, and waggled the fingers of one hand as folk did after airy aspirations. "But no one really knows the tale—they just know how it ended, which seemed good enough to me. Of course," he added quickly, "if you would rather not talk about it, I shan't press it, but you were out there alone for some time before anyone could reach you."  
  
So he said, and leaned an elbow on the table, and he might have seemed quite the enraptured listener, but as Peloren stared at him, he became aware, suddenly, of the listening silence beyond him. The Heir raised an elegant brow at him, and a hard, conspiratorial gleam shone in his eyes, and Peloren realized it was not so much Imrahil's curiosity that the Heir desired to feed.   
  
 _Or rather, force-feed,_  Peloren thought, recognizing the young prince's intent. Peloren hesitated a moment, for he was seized by a strange reluctance to speak, and his mouth felt dry of a sudden. Memory of blood-spattered stone and sand flashed through his mind, and he swallowed hard.   
  
But in the end, he nodded.  _For we've had enough of keeping our own counsel,_  Peloren decided.  _Let us see what comes of taking Imrahil's—it can hardly do us more harm!_  "Well," he began, "after you left, we had to fend for ourselves, and we only had the villagers to help us, so…"  
  
He spun the tale then, or rather, let it spin him, and was grateful, after a while, when Elethil's fingers brushed his hand lightly and came to rest there, unobtrusively. And although he was not willing to repeat in any detail the difficult conversation he and Andrahar had had, he did not fail to praise Andrahar's actions, whether in battle or in seeing Peloren through that shaky, awful moment in Dorhan's kitchen.   
  
"And that is all, truly," he finished when he could think of nothing more to say of the events of the night. "We saw to the dead—the Haradrim and the villagers—the next morning, and I slept quite a lot. And then we rode home the next afternoon, as soon as Master Kendrion thought it safe enough to leave his patients in the care of Mistress Falwen and the other village women. It mostly all happened very quickly," he ended a bit lamely.   
  
"It does tend to," Teilin said, and sighed distractedly, glancing aside at Aldan and Ambor, who nodded their agreement.   
  
"I wish I could have gone back with Ornendil to make sure of you both, but he sent me to report to Father—no doubt to keep me out of the way!" The Heir sighed, then grimaced. "And I am sorry it took so long to send help. I went as swiftly as I could, but…" Peloren merely shrugged, dismissing the apology. Imrahil gave him a smile for that, and reached for his cup. "To courage that draws luck—long may it last!"  
  
Peloren flushed. "Imri," he protested, but feebly in the face of how quickly his friends took up that toast. And:  
  
"If you'll not take praise, Pel, at least do not grudge luck her due," Aldan advised. "Your luck and Andrahar's—drink up!"  
  
"And it would seem there is more to be said," Imrahil murmured, even as they finished their ale. He sat up a little straighter, even as Voradril appeared at the esquires' table.  
  
"Listen closely, lads," the sergeant said. "His Highness wishes a word with everyone after lunch. As soon as you are done here, go to the Great Hall and assemble there. No benches, and stand to the front this time." This provoked a round of puzzled, hushed murmuring, and Voradril arched a brow, then rapped his knuckles on the table, drawing attention back to him. "No benches," he repeated, "and I would not advise being late—lunch ends in little more than a quarter hour. Be in the Great Hall on time or I will see you this evening. Understood?"  
  
"Aye, sir," the esquires chorused. The sergeant looked over them a long moment, then apparently satisfied that they did indeed understand, nodded and made his way over to the little knot of sergeants gathered around Armsmaster Ornendil, who had left the high table to stand near the door to the commons. The Heir stared after him for a little while, then looked to his father.   
  
The Prince had his head bent towards the Princess, listening to some comment she murmured into his ear, and he nodded from time to time. At length, he straightened, and then he noticed his son watching him. It seemed to Peloren that some silent communication passed between them, for Imrahil lifted his chin slightly, as if in acknowledgment of some word or other, ere he turned once more to his friends.  
  
"Well," the Heir said quietly, "since we are wanted—shall we?"  
  
  
  
Although they were among the first to reach the Great Hall, others were not far behind them, and despite its size, it filled swiftly as not only esquires, but Swan Knights, arrived and formed little clots according to company. And as the minutes bled away towards the end of the hour, the clots spread out, forming neat lines of men before the dais.   
  
But as ordered, it was the esquires who occupied the front rows for a change, and a very nervous company they made. There were no few glances thrown back over shoulders, and the low buzz of whispered discussion hovered on the air. Peloren, surreptitiously eyeing his fellows, caught sight of a scowling Faldion further down the line, and he had an easy view of Celdir, who stood but two rows forward, talking urgently with Iordel.  
  
But when the bells tolled the hour, backs stiffened as everyone settled expectantly to attention, awaiting the arrival of the Prince and the masters. Nor had they long to wait—the bells had not yet finished their ringing when Adrahil and Olwen made their way down the aisle that had been left open. Followed by the masters and Captain Valandil, they mounted the dais, and everyone took up his or her place. But no one sat, not even the Princess, who stood straight as a sword at her lord husband's side.  
  
When the clamor of the bells had died away at last, Adrahil stood forward. "Gentlemen," he said, "it is the duty of a Prince to secure justice in his realm, and as the saying commonly goes, he who cannot rule his own house should fear to rule others. I have called you here this day to address a matter that has laid a black mark on our house—a matter that concerns each of us. Today, we are not merely witnesses to justice—you and I stand also as accused by it."  
  
The Prince paused, and his gaze swept over the assembled company of knights and esquires, regarding them all with cool grey eyes, ere he ordered: "Andrahar of Umbar, Peloren of Hathwyn, Elethil of Caldor—you will stand forward."  
  
At that, Peloren felt his stomach turn over, and lunch felt like a leaden lump in his innards, as momentarily, the past bled into the present. For just a moment, it was two years ago, and he and Elethil and the others awaited their judgment…  
  
Then Teilin nudged him gently, and he blinked, and the past slipped away. Drawing a deep breath, he moved to obey, striving to seem unconcerned as he made his way past his brethren and into the aisle, falling in at Elethil's side. And though he had no desire to incur his liege-lord's wrath, he walked slowly, for he had as little desire to stand before prince and assembly any longer than he must, waiting for Andrahar. For Andrahar had further to go to join them: being the most junior knight, he had taken a place in the last row, and Peloren counted the other's brisk, light steps as he approached the dais.   
  
When Andrahar had come to rest at Peloren's side, the Prince continued. "Last Friday evening, while most of us were unaware of any danger, a village north of Dol Amroth, Calardin, came under threat of the Corsairs. There is every reason to believe that more such threats shall arise, and that we shall be compelled to find some way to meet them, but on Friday, none of us imagined there was anything to fear.   
  
"Thus Calardin's people, though little distant from Dol Amroth, should have perished for our unwariness, and we know not what other mischief might have been wrought had not Andrahar had the presence of mind to send warning to us and had not he and Peloren stood against the Corsairs at the only defensible point available. In doing so, in discerning the demands of duty in an impossible situation, they showed themselves worthy of the Code they swore to keep, and of the honor that attends it.   
  
"And yet," said Adrahil, his voice hardening, "it seems that that honor is worth less in our halls than in a fisherman's cot. For some time, we have been aware of the ugly, demeaning sentiment where Andrahar is concerned, though he has done nothing to merit it. At the same time, ironically, it has been brought to our attention that Peloren and Elethil have lately been subject to abuse for past offense  _against_  Andrahar, though that matter, arising out of a hatred of Haradrim common to us all, has been settled long since and the grievance laid to rest among them. It has gone so far, in fact, as to draw in an instructor, who ought to take measures to end such quarrels, not exacerbate them.  
  
"The Swan Knights of Dol Amroth live by their Code, which demands that honor govern all their dealings, be they with friends or with enemies. And it requires that when honor fails, brothers shall correct each other, submitting themselves to the authority of captain and lord at need." Adrahil paused once more, the silence lending weight to his words, as he finished: "Hear, then, the judgment of your lord.   
  
"It is clear that we have failed to uphold the requirements of honor where Andrahar of Umbar is concerned: in this judgment, all are included, esquire and knight alike, and to the degree that we have failed to prevent this failure, we, too, cannot claim innocence. Let the reckoning stand then as restitution and a new beginning:  
  
"From this day forward, any man who cannot treat one of his own brethren with the respect the Code demands even for an enemy is subject to dismissal from this company. Where one of your brethren finds his roots in a people foreign or hostile to us, this shall be no cause to treat him with any less respect than any other, or to demean his countrymen before him. If a man cannot submit fully to this rule, let him come to us this day and accept our thanks for his service, but he must leave our company. And better he leave it of his own will, with his honor intact, than that at some later date he stand foresworn before us for judgment, for there can be no lenience in this matter."  
  
A murmuring arose at this, and Peloren glanced sideways at Andrahar, who was staring fixedly at the floor, apparently as surprised as any other. Adrahil let the urgent whispers run for a time, but at length he raised a hand, and the company quieted. He looked to Andrahar then, and said, "We have said it before, but it merits repeating: Despite the injustice you have suffered at our hands, you have held faithfully to our Code, and have ever done so. You have been a good and faithful knight, and we thank you for correcting us when it was needed. We hope that we shall take up the lesson so well."  
  
At that, Andrahar bowed. "Thank you, my lord prince," he murmured.  
  
"Recompense requires no thanks. You may return to your place, Andrahar." Andrahar bowed once more, and after a brief, indecipherable glance at Peloren and Elethil, made his way to the back of the room once more. Adrahil waited for a few moments, ere he turned his attention to the esquires standing anxiously before him.  
  
"Esquires Peloren and Elethil," he said, and Peloren felt his spine stiffen instinctively. "Two years ago, you stood before this company for your actions against one of your brothers and for usurping the authority of the Prince of Dol Amroth to judge his subjects. Today, you stand before us in part because others now usurp that same authority to judge you on a matter already ruled upon. That some of this has occurred under the guise of a particular understanding of fraternal correction should not excuse those who presumed to judge.   
  
"However, as in the case of troubles that have attached to Andrahar because he is of the Haradrim, that you have suffered so is a failure that has its origin above you, or beyond you. Master Ornendil, Master Théorwyn, Master Illian, and Captain Valandil concur that responsibility cannot lie only with the esquires, not even those who perpetrated abuses against you. Therefore, our judgment is as follows—Master Ornendil, if you would?" The Prince gestured gracefully to the Armsmaster who stepped forward, producing a sealed letter, which he quickly opened and read from.  
  
"Firstly, what has hitherto passed as fraternal correction among esquires is suspended, and shall not be resumed. All complaints will be heard before sergeants or officers, and all disciplinary measures will also pass before them, whether serious or minor. Demerits will be reconsidered in light of this.   
  
"Secondly, any esquire who refuses to acknowledge, in his treatment of his fellows, the judgment of the prince or of any officer upon another esquire, is subject to reprimand and, if necessary, dismissal. Complaints about a judgment must be addressed to the judge, not the one judged.   
  
"Finally," Ornendil said, and lowered the letter to speak directly to his assembled brethren, "it has always been held that a captain is responsible for the failings of his men. Therefore, the masters and Captain Valandil have all recommended, and the Prince has endorsed the decision, that for failure to protect esquires and instructors who have come under our command, either within a particular area of study or generally, that Master Illian and myself be removed from our offices, effective immediately, and the choice of successors be given over to others."   
  
At which pronouncement, a sort of dead, shocked silence settled over the company but Ornendil ignored it. He simply made Peloren and Elethil a bow, and said, "Gentlemen, I humbly beg your pardon." And while the esquires stared at him, slightly agape, he turned to the Prince, removing the chain of the Armsmaster's office from around his neck as he did so, and he presented it to Adrahil with a bow. The Prince received it, and Ornendil moved to stand with Illian, who had also stepped down from his place on the dais.   
  
 _Not his place anymore,_  Peloren thought, feeling rather dazed. Beside him, Elethil was white-faced, and almost seemed to be shivering a bit, but there was no time yet to ask after his friend, for the Prince was speaking again.  
  
"Not lightly do we lose captains who have served us as loyally and well as they knew how and for so long. But error exposes us all to loss, though it is our hope that what is lost through justice is regained in honor of a different sort." Adrahil beckoned then to Théorwyn who came to stand before him, as the Prince proclaimed: "Since the esquires needs must have an Armsmaster, for the time, Master Théorwyn shall serve as Armsmaster as well as Master of Horses, until we find one suitable to take up that office. The position of Master of Records shall likewise be filled for a time by Sir Tarondor."  
  
To the dull buzz of urgent whispering, Tarondor, seeming quite as surprised as anyone else, obediently made his way forward and was quickly ushered into place upon the dais.   
  
"This concludes our business for this day," Adrahil said, when all had fallen silent once more. "Think well upon what has passed here, and let us not suffer such injustice in our ranks henceforth. Dismissed."   
  
There was a general clearing out, to the accompaniment of a babbling confusion of talk as shaken esquires and knights made their way from the halls to the duties that still lay ahead of them. Others, however, lingered.   
  
"Pel! Elya!" Aldan, Teilin, and Ambor were making their way over to them, squeezing past the stream of bodies going in the opposite direction.  
  
Peloren, however, did not answer them, but turned to Elethil, who still looked as if he were in shock. Laying hands on his shoulders, Peloren gave him a bit of a shake, and asked, "What is it, Elya?"  
  
Elethil shook his head dazedly, but did not speak immediately. He folded his arms across his chest and hunched his shoulders a bit, seeming to try to collect himself. "Everything is changing," Elethil murmured.   
  
"Well, aye—that is the point, and the good of it," Peloren said cautiously after a moment. Then: " _What_  is changing?"   
  
"Everything. I—" Elethil shook his head sharply, seeming to remember where he was. He straightened, ran a hand quickly over his face and then back through his hair. And: "It's all right. 'Tis only—it startled me."  
  
"Elya," Peloren sighed, but got no further, for the others arrived then.   
  
"Well done, lads!" Teilin exclaimed, and gave Elethil a clap on the back.  
  
"Let us hope that's the end of trouble," Aldan said, grinning broadly.   
  
"Aye," Peloren answered for both of them. And smiled. Aldan gave him a look then, and his eyes cut to Elethil. But ere he could ask:  
  
"Peloren!" Peloren turned to see Master Théorwyn waving him over to join him, and Darmel, and a few other knights who served as assistants for him.  
  
"Aye, sir… ah… " Peloren glanced swiftly back at his friends, at Elethil, torn, even as another voice called:  
  
"All right, lads, you can speak later, but you're wanted elsewhere!" A sergeant was striding toward them, and behind him, toward the back of the hall, they could see Imrahil bidding Andrahar farewell for the time. The Heir paused on the threshold, though, waiting for his friends.   
  
"Should we—?" Aldan asked, but somewhat to everyone's surprise, Elethil spoke up.   
  
"Go ahead, or there will be no end of trouble today. I'll wait for Pel," he said. There was a moment's hesitation, but with the sergeant scowlingly advancing, and the promise that Elethil would be under watch, they made to depart.  
  
"After supper," Aldan said, and Elethil nodded.   
  
"Peloren," Théorwyn called again, and this time, Peloren quickly obeyed.   
  
"Sorry, sir," he apologized, as he joined the others. Théorwyn made a quick, dismissive gesture.   
  
"For the moment," the newly-minted Armsmaster said, "let us simply focus on the task at hand. Until Captain Valandil and the Prince have appointed someone to the place of Armsmaster, I will need each of you to take on a greater share of responsibility for the esquires' instruction in matters of horsemanship. Now…"  
  
As Théorwyn spoke, Peloren tried to listen, for it seemed his part in assisting the Horse Master involved a more active role in training esquires, and not only those whose horsemanship was less than acceptable. But at a certain moment, he became aware of a distracting beat, a quiet step, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blue-clad figure quietly making his way out of the hall…   
  
 _Elethil!_  But he could not simply run after him, and he felt a surge of betrayed anger.  _For he knows I cannot. He was **waiting**  for a chance to slip away! Valar!_ He blinked and forced himself to attend to Théorwyn's words, for surely this could not last so long. Surely…  
  
 _Ai Elbereth!_  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
Elethil did not precisely run, or walk, from the hall. He crept out, quiet, stiff-backed, and propelled by an urgency that set his stomach roiling. He needed  _OUT_ …   
  
But no sooner had he slipped out the door and stepped over the threshold, than something moved in the corner of his eye, a blue-black blur. "So," said Andrahar, standing suddenly in his path. Elethil froze. The Southron cocked his head at him, raised a heavy brow.  
  
"How did you—?" Elethil began, only to be cut short.  
  
"Do you want to know?" Andrahar demanded, and when Elethil did not immediately answer, he shrugged, and concluded, "Then do not ask."   
  
Elethil's mouth tightened at that, but before that dark-eyed and too-knowing gaze, there was nothing to be said—nothing, at least, that might not bring a reply as painful if not more so than the looks his friends gave him. The ones that told him too much of what they saw in him, and which truly, he had no wish to know, and so he simply crossed the corridor and leaned a shoulder heavily against the wall, folding his arms across his chest and staring down at the floor.  
  
  
Andrahar, meanwhile, watched Elethil retreat, and sighed inwardly, frustrated and uncertain. Frustrated, for the lad bent like a wet reed, and what was anyone to do with such a one? Uncertain, for it was not as if he had desired this post, but Imrahil had been adamant.  
  
"The masters will want us shortly," Imrahil had said, as he had embraced his friend at the back of the hall. "I cannot stay, but we must talk, and soon! After the lectures are over. But Andra," the Heir had said, and pulled away just slightly to glance furtively back up the length of the Great Hall, where Peloren and Elethil stood, "have an eye on them—on Elethil especially—'til we are free once more. Please?"  
  
There was no way to refuse Imrahil, not when the matter so evidently troubled him—not when Elethil so evidently needed minding—and truth be told, it was hard to overlook the fact that he and Peloren and Elethil had seemed doomed to torment each other until just lately. So Andrahar had agreed, if not gladly, wondering the while what on earth  _he_  was supposed to do. They might have settled their grievances, but that hardly meant matters were easy or friendly between Peloren, Elethil, and himself, and especially between himself and Elethil.  _And I am no nurse-maid!_  he had thought.  _Nor a healer—what have I to do with minding someone running from his own thoughts?_    
  
But the need was there, and if Peloren could not keep watch on Elethil, then it was up to him, apparently, and so when Théorwyn had called Peloren over, he had preceded Aldan, Teilin, and Ambor out, and settled in to wait, just in case.   
  
It seemed he had been wise to do so, too, though as he stared at Elethil, he was struck once more by an unwelcome sense of impotence:  _What am I to do now?_  He supposed it was enough simply to keep Elethil in view, 'til Peloren came to relieve him of his charge. Not that he particularly wanted to watch someone fall apart, but at least Elethil seemed disinclined either to talk or to act. Despite a certain discomfort, that suited Andrahar well enough, and so he composed himself to the patient doing of duty.   
  
Time crawled by while the two of them stood there, one against either side of the corridor, Andrahar impassively watching Elethil, Elethil carefully not looking at him, though clearly he felt Andrahar's gaze. For he was restless in his avoidance, looking here and there, shifting his weight from time to time, while hands sought occupation in idle or curious caress of self and stone.  
  
Once, when Andrahar had been a boy in his father's house, he had got hold of one of his mother's hairpins and had set upon a toy his half-brothers had liked to use to scare their sisters with. It was nothing but a little tin box, brightly painted, and with a circular groove on one side so that one of the decorative panels could be turned within it. At a certain point, a snake's head would leap out, and his half-brothers delighted to set it at just that point so that the slightest movement would cause the snake to emerge, much to their sisters' terror.   
  
Andrahar had not had overmuch concern for his half-sisters' shrieks, given that they had never had anything to say to him. But he had been curious about the box, and so he had spent a furtive hour dismantling and repairing it, and had discovered in the process that the thing worked with tightly coiled wire that was wound by turning the panel in its groove.   
  
Now he watched a wire of a different sort twist within his erstwhile enemy, and wondered when the outburst should come, propelled by the unbearable, and he felt a stirring of unease.  _For who knows what shall come out?_  he thought.   
  
Perhaps that uneasiness left some trace upon his face or posture, communicating itself somehow across the gap. For Elethil glanced up suddenly and gave him a quick, sharp, and sharply ambivalent, look, ere swiftly looking away once more. At length, he spoke in a low voice, saying, "You need not fear. Or stay. Though no one believe it, I shall not go anywhere."  
  
"Then where were you going just now?" Andrahar countered, and got an exasperated sigh.   
  
"Not  _that_  sort of—" Elethil bit off the caustic correction, in favor of a more sullen, weary, "You know what I mean. You especially ought to know."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
A shrug. "You are of the Haradrim," Elethil said simply, and his tone was such as to make it no judgment, but merely the assertion of a bare, brute fact.  
  
Nevertheless, given that it came from one with whom Andrahar was but lately reconciled, it needed a moment for him to swallow the acid retort that rose automatically to mind, and to collect himself enough to reply, in as neutral a voice as he could manage, "I am. But you are not. And you will forgive me if I say your performance thus far this term does not lead me to think you know overmuch of Haradrim where such things matter. And I do not know everything of how Gondorrim think, either, especially on the topic of… 'going somewhere.' It does not happen so very often here, after all."  
  
Elethil stared at him a long, painful moment, and then his face fell in a grimace that seemed to turn in on itself—a clench and a wince, and then a sigh as Elethil closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cool of the wall's stone. And: "You’ll get no example from me. There is no need to hover."   
  
"Your look might say otherwise," Andrahar replied, by way of refusing the suggestion.   
  
"What matters it to you?" Elethil snapped suddenly. "I thought your people found some honor in it anyway!"  
  
"They do, but show me wherein it serves your honor or anyone else’s if you were to slay yourself  _now_ ," Andrahar retorted, and stepped down hard on the impulse to say more than that. For in the end, this was clearly not about Harad or Haradrim, and so he did his best to let go the offensiveness of the suggestion that somehow Haradrim, in finding honor in the act of suicide, cared not at all or did not grieve the loss, or did not discriminate between a right and a wrong way to go about the matter.   
  
But to Andrahar’s disappointment, though not entirely to his surprise, Elethil did not take him up on the challenge. Rather, that brief flash of anger bled away, and with it went any trace of spirit that he had shown.   
  
"There never was any honor in it," he answered dully.   
  
Andrahar shook his head, frustrated. "And that is where you are wrong," he found himself saying. And when Elethil gave him a startled, uncomprehending look, he continued heatedly, "As much as there was in your disappearance to rue, there was this good in it: that you finally said ‘Enough!’ and stood by it. You are an esquire, Elethil—you will be a Swan Knight. Have pride enough to honor that!"  
  
But in the charged silence following this outburst, Elethil said quietly, "Swan Knights do not wish to kill themselves."  
  
Andrahar snorted.  _Gondorians!_  "Every man born a warrior has it in him to wish his own death. That is why there are lords and oaths," he argued. "To give that desire over to others, who can render him useful and profitable, so that he dies for others at their command, and not for himself. It is only when his lord has failed and been destroyed that he takes back the choice to himself, and if it is true that the Dark Lord shall come for us one day and overwhelm us, then you will see how many Swan Knights do not fling themselves to death in enemy arms when they might have saved themselves or given themselves over to others. But they will still be Swan Knights."   
  
He gave Elethil a sharp look. "The Prince did right by you today; you have an honorable lord to command you, you have brothers to keep you—‘tis what you said you wanted when you chose to return. Take it, therefore, if you have the heart!"  
  
A lengthy silence followed this outburst, in which two things occurred to Andrahar. Firstly, that perhaps this was not the sort of thing Elethil ought to hear, and secondly, hard upon the heels of that thought, that he might very well not care. After all, lacking Imrahil’s innate good sense of how to right one so undone, what should he have said? The comforting lie had never sat well with him, and he was not very adept at it anyway.  
  
He was, perhaps fortunately, spared the need to discover how Elethil might react, for at that very moment, the doors flew open and Peloren came to an abrupt halt upon seeing them there. Relief washed over his face, and Elethil, seeing that, sighed. Ere Peloren could so much as open his mouth to speak, he said:  
  
"I just stepped out for minute, Pel."  
  
"I can see that," Peloren replied after a beat. Andrahar, who, if he were not very good at holding someone’s hand, had certainly developed a good sense for a tactical withdrawal, decided that now was the time for one. He pushed himself away from the wall and straightened, grimacing a bit when his back cracked.   
  
"I shall bid you a good afternoon, gentlemen. See you on the lists." With that, he turned and made his way down the hall, but behind him, he heard Peloren ask softly:  
  
"What was that about?"  
  
And Elethil replied: "Nothing. We were only talking."  
  
‘Only talking.’ Andrahar pulled his cloak closer about himself, mentally cursing the sling that hampered him as he went in search of something to do with himself for the next few hours.  _'Only talking.' I suppose we shall know soon enough!_  
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
The afternoon was wearing on towards evening when Ornendil, who was carefully sorting little sheaves of paper into desk drawers, was interrupted in his task by a knock upon the door of his office. He looked up—he had left the door open—and saw an esquire hovering on the threshold.   
  
"Ah," he said, setting the papers aside. "Celdir, come in, please. Take a seat," he told the lad, and watched as the young man did so, Celdir's eyes cutting to the clutter of the room. Ornendil had a couple of chests set open in the middle of the floor, and one of the chairs was occupied by a stack of older folios he had yet to sort through. Some might have called this 'ostentatious'; Ornendil preferred not to argue such terms.  
  
Instead he settled back into his own chair and regarded the esquire, who, well-trained son of a lord that he was, gazed back with just that proper touch of deference demanded by the difference of rank, if not of birth. Ornendil had to give the lad a certain amount of credit for poise, since he had to be wondering about Ornendil's intentions, and how much Torlas might have said, Torlas having been by earlier that afternoon, at Ornendil's command.  
  
"Do you know why you are here?" he asked at length.   
  
"You sent for me, sir," came the prompt reply. Ornendil smiled thinly, and nodded, conceding the first point.   
  
"I did. Do you know why?"  
  
"No, sir, I was told only to come to the Armsmaster's office. I assume, though," Celdir volunteered, "that it has something to do with the questions of the past few days."  
  
"It does indeed. And also with this afternoon's gathering," Ornendil replied, and paused a moment, letting his gaze sweep over the lad. Celdir said nothing and sat very still, and the former Armsmaster wondered what passed through his mind. _Not what I should wish, I fear,_  he thought, and banished curiosity. It was not, after all, needed for this chore, his final act before leaving office. And so rather than draw out the preliminaries, he moved straight to the point.   
  
"In the course of our inquiries, which went well beyond your peers, I might add, we have heard quite a bit about you and Andrahar and Peloren and Elethil. Some of it we knew of before, but had not the will to make of it what it deserved, I fear," Ornendil said, letting a rather chill and steely note enter his tone. "In the future, that shall not be the case. Master Théorwyn has heard all our findings, so know this now: you are watched. You will be watched, and the first time you should step out of line where one of your fellows is concerned, you will be sent home.   
  
"Indeed," he warned, "the only reason you are not being sent home now is that your friend Torlas insists he acted alone in crafting that bit of… 'mischief'… that began our investigation. That, and that we acknowledge our own fault in allowing you to go so far without being checked much earlier than today. So consider this fair warning, Celdir: 'tis time you looked with more respect upon your fellows, whatever their origins, whatever their errors, and left your betters to deal out the judgment that is their right and duty. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Celdir replied, to all appearances unmoved. Ornendil, however, noted the slightest tightening of the other's jaw, and smiled once more thinly.   
  
"Good. For an esquire may be sent home to a profitable career in arms in some noble court. A knight, however, who is expelled… he usually finds it harder to find a place in a lord's retinue." And he held Celdir's eye a moment. Then: "You may go, Celdir. A good evening to you."  
  
Celdir rose then, and stood a moment before his desk, seeming to hesitate just slightly. But then he bowed and without another word, made his way out. Ornendil sat in his chair and listened to the other's retreating footsteps before he sighed softly, and set himself once more to culling papers and organizing them for his successor.   
  
Time passed; the bells in the watch tower tolled the end of the day, and there was a brief flurry of young voices, accompanied by the scuff and patter of booted feet as esquires left their quarters for the dining commons and supper. Ornendil ignored this and continued in his task awhile longer, until another set of footsteps could be heard drawing nigh. And when they paused just beyond his office, and a shadow fell across the door, Ornendil looked up to find Illian leaning on the doorframe.   
  
"Illian," he greeted the other, waving him within.   
  
"I thought I would come and see your progress," Illian replied, shoving away from the door to wander closer, and a slight smile touched his lips as he cocked a hip to perch upon the edge of the Armsmaster's desk. "I must say, Ornendil, I may have more papers, but you are by far the worse of us when it comes to  _finding_  any of them!"  
  
"I have just finished," Ornendil informed his colleague, letting pass the comment upon his filing.   
  
"I should hope so," Illian retorted, taking up a few papers in the last stack still upon the desk and rifling through them briefly. "How did it go with Celdir?"  
  
"I should say he understands how matters stand," Ornendil answered. "We shall see whether he respects that understanding enough to change his ways."  
  
"I imagine he will, especially if he can no longer rely on one of 'his' lads to help him along," Illian replied. "I saw Torlas on his way out of the prince's study. He looked pale as milk!"  
  
Ornendil grunted at that. "How was the meeting with Harthil?" he asked. For Illian and Adrahil had agreed last night jointly to confront Harthil—not so much because Adrahil had any need of Illian's presence, but Illian had felt it was a duty owed too many times over for him not to be there.   
  
"He shall not trouble us or the esquires further," Illian said simply, and when Ornendil raised a brow, explained: "He'll not teach again. Adrahil is sending him to the Prince's household in Minas Tirith, into Aerandir's care, to assist our men and the Steward's agents in their analyses of the Easterling threat."  
  
In other words, a post far from nearly all esquires, from the enemy Harthil knew best, and under the watchful eyes of Adrahil's well-loved half-brother and staff. "Keeping him close, I take it?" Ornendil said after a moment.  
  
"In a manner of speaking, aye," Illian replied. The former Master of Records returned his handful of papers to their proper place and neatened the stack. "He knows he shall be watched. 'Tis not as if he does not know the rules of such games."  
  
For a time, the two of them were silent, reflecting, perhaps, on the upheaval of the day. But at length, Illian sighed and stretched, and then he leaned over and gave Ornendil a light cuff to the arm.   
  
"Come," he said briskly. "If you are finished, then have well done with it. I came to see if you would join me for a drink, but since your wife should have words for both of us if I delivered you home drunk, I shall settle for supper. We're not needed in the hall tonight, that is certain!"  
  
"In truth, I'd welcome the distraction," Ornendil replied, rising. He carefully scooped the stack of papers up and set them within the bottom-most drawer of his desk and pushed it in. Then, straightening: "Are you buying?"  
  
Illian snorted and slid off the desk. "We'll draw for it after supper—as usual."  
  
"Fair enough. Have you anywhere in mind?"  
  
"Well, given the events of the day, I thought the  _Southern Sun_  might be appropriate," Illian replied, naming one of the Haradric taverns not too far down in the city.   
  
"It will certainly bring me appropriately to tears," Ornendil replied dryly, having discovered many years ago that Haradric cuisine was a little beyond his abilities to stomach easily, unless he were careful with it. But he nodded and clapped Illian upon the back as he grabbed his cloak from its hook. Ushering Illian out of the office, he shut it behind them and paused a moment. "Last time," he sighed.  
  
Illian grunted, but then laid a hand on his shoulder and inquired, "Shall we?"  
  
"Aye, let's be off," Ornendil replied, shaking himself a bit. He fell in with Illian, drawing his cloak about his shoulders as he went, though he did glance back once at the Fledglings' Wing.  _Fifteen years,_  he thought, feeling unmoored, like a ship without an anchor.   
  
But only for a moment, before he firmly set loss to one side. Things changed in the wide world—they had built their hopes on that. Now 'twas time to let the wager stand and see what could be made of it, though others lead the way.   
  
 _More wise be they than we!_    
  


~ 0 ~

  
  
_And while two captains, formerly masters, sat in a tavern and, despite Illian's best intentions, got slowly drunk, in the keep of Dol Amroth, two esquires sought out companions, in two little rooms on opposite sides of the castle…_  
  
  
Peloren had not meant to be so long away, but despite the fact that Aldan, Teilin, and Ambor were due on the lists the next day at the usual early hour, and so subject to curfew, to say nothing of the wisdom of temperance, they had wanted to celebrate somewhat after supper. The sticking point had been Elethil, who had insisted—politely, but firmly—that he wished to stay in, although he had been quick to encourage Peloren to go out with their friends for a time. Worse, he had had an accomplice.  
  
"Go on, Pel," Imrahil had urged. "You should celebrate. I, on the other hand, probably should stay close for a time after last Friday. No sense in rousing paternal wrath twice in less than a week!"  
  
"But—" Peloren had protested.   
  
"Go, Pel," Elethil had said, and given him a bit of a smile. "'Twill be all right: you'll be out with Aldan and Ambor and Teilin, and I'll be with Imrahil here."  
  
Argument had foundered in the face of such tidy arrangements, but despite enjoying the company of friends, Peloren had been glad to return. Now he stalked down the hall towards Elethil's door, and he felt the grating of the case tucked into his belt at his hip as he walked.   
  
Finally, he reached Elethil's room, and paused a moment, listening for the low murmur of voices. He heard none, and feeling a bit anxious, raised his hand and knocked. "Elya?"  
  
For a short while, there was no response. But then, just as he was about to knock again, the door opened, and there stood Elethil—alone, and apparently none the worse for it.   
  
"Pel," his friend greeted him, and stood aside. "Come in."  
  
  


In Harad, everything had its proper order, its proper place or time. Therefore Andrahar struck a match and lit the four candles on their stand, starting with the one closest to him on the right, then moving to the one behind it, then to the candle in the front on the left, and ending with the one behind it ere he shook the match out. The incense stick he simply touched to one of the candles and set it in its little sand dish. The heavy scent mingled with the heat of the candles and stole swiftly about the room as he settled himself tailor style before them, leaning an elbow upon his knees. It was not the pious posture tradition prescribed, but then again, it had been some time since he had prayed and he did not do so now.

That was, perhaps, a good thing, for mere moments later, it seemed, someone knocked upon his door. For a moment, Andrahar hesitated—would it be better to pretend he was not in, or to send whoever it was away? But then: 

"Andra?" Imrahil called. Andrahar sighed, hesitated one moment more, then called in return:

"Come in, Imri."

  
  
  
Peloren had been swift to obey the summons, and now he stood watching as Elethil crossed to his bed and picked up the book that had been laid face down there. He took it up, one finger between the pages to mark his place, then moved to the desk, where he rooted about in a drawer. Eventually, he found a scrap of paper to replace his finger ere he set the book down.   
  
"How was it with the others?" he asked.  
  
"Quiet enough. What we all needed, I think," Peloren replied. Then: "We missed you."  
  
Elethil smiled a little at that, but said only: "What is that?"  
  
Peloren drew the case from his belt and held it out to Elethil, who received it, and as understanding dawned upon his face, said, "Merry Yule, Elya."  
  
  


Imrahil entered, shut the door, and then stopped short at the unusual sight of his friend before a lit altar. Grey eyes widened, and then his manner grew hesitant. "I'm sorry," he said, contritely, "I did not think I should be interrupting—"

Andrahar waved the apology aside. "Were you interrupting, I would not have answered," he assured him.

"Oh. Well, I am glad of that." Imrahil moved to join him, though he settled a respectable distance from the altar, sitting against the wall so Andrahar could see him, but also careful to avoid intruding on sacred spaces, that he not give any impression that he was a supplicant before the Fire. 

However, as he drew his knees up to his chest, he cocked his head at Andrahar and asked, "But if I'm not interrupting, then what  _are_  you doing, if you do not mind my asking?"

 

  
  
  
Elethil set the case aside, turning the pipe in his hands, and he gave it a quick try, once up and down the scale.   
  
"Do you like it?" Peloren asked.   
  
Elethil did not answer that question immediately, though he did run his fingers once more over the stops, seeming to appreciate the sensuous feel of wood and rim and varnish. "Did you come over just to give me this?" he asked, glancing up at Peloren, who fidgeted slightly.   
  
"Not  _only_  to give it to you," he admitted.  
  
  
  


What  _was_  he doing? Andrahar wished he had some good and ready answer, but he did not. He knew only what he was not doing, and that was praying.

There  _had_  been a time when he had prayed daily, when he had lived in his father's house, where such rites were carefully adhered to as befitted a great lord. He himself had scarcely thought overmuch of it, being a boy swept up in the routine of the household. 

He had also kept his mother's heretical devotions with her—to please her, and his father also, who had indulged her as his favorite and thought it fitting that Ariyë's son should share in her rites. As bare as they were, he had found them lacking by comparison to the more elaborate practices the rest of the household kept, though he had dutifully learned the prayer-poems of the Order of the Blue, Bakshir's most notorious (and tenacious) sect. They were not, after all, unlovely. And in their dignity without ritual, they had got him through those nights—four years of them—when it had hurt too much to dare to let words die wholly away, lest the full horror of his plight burst the bonds words set upon it and sweep him all away, like a bird in a sandstorm.

He did not know at what point belief had deserted him, or if he had ever really had it, but since his arrival in his strange new land, he had not prayed, save in the earliest days and perhaps a few times in a year when it occurred to him that in Harad some particularly holy day was being observed. Then he might try, but something had always been lacking and he would fall untroubled out of practice once more. The journey to Harad with Thorongil had returned him to the habit of daily observance as a part of blending in with others, but it had not lasted once he had left the South. 

So what was he doing tonight? 

"I do not know."

  
  
  
"I did not think so," Elethil replied. And he gestured to the chair, then, inviting Peloren to sit, while he sank down onto the edge of his bed.   
  
"I'm sorry, Elya, 'tis simply—" Peloren spread his hands, helplessly.   
  
"I know," Elethil interrupted. "You thought I would be leaving." A pause, then Elethil raised his eyes to Peloren. "What if I were?"  
  
At which Peloren felt his heart begin to speed. "What do you mean?" he demanded.  
  
  
  


"I came from Elethil's room," Imrahil told him after a time. 

_Elethil._  Andrahar leaned his head in his free hand, pressing at his temples a moment, ere he asked, "How did he seem to you?"

"Sad. But not as withdrawn. 'Tis hard to describe," Imrahil replied. And in the candle-lit darkness, his eyes glinted, as he peered closely at his friend and said, "We talked for a time—Elethil said you two spoke this afternoon. He had a number of questions about Haradric customs, and some of them things I do not know that I could ever answer." 

"Did he?" Andrahar murmured. 

"What  _did_  you say to him, Andra?" Imrahil asked, curious. Andrahar considered this question, and the answers that came to mind, mentally trying and rejecting several before he finally said, simply:

"I told him what I thought."

  
  
  
"What do you mean, leaving?" Peloren demanded, when Elethil did not immediately respond. "Elya?"  
  
"I mean," Elethil said, drawing a deep breath, "what if I were not suited to be a Swan Knight?"  
  
"Why would you say that? Why would you  _think_  that?" Peloren asked, and then stopped, thinking back to that afternoon. "Is this about something Andrahar said?" he demanded, suspicious.  _And if it is, I do not care what or who he is, we shall have words!_  
  
But Elethil shook his head. "'Tis not his fault. It is just that a few things came clear to me, after we talked, that is all."  
  
"What came clear?" Peloren asked, and watched as Elethil bowed his head, staring at the floor between his knees for a time, ere he sighed once more, running a hand through his hair and over his neck, ere he rose restlessly to his feet again.   
  
"Things are changing," he said at last, repeating the words that had so puzzled Peloren that afternoon. "And it is good they are—Prince Adrahil and the masters—well, Théorwyn and whoever they choose for Armsmaster and Master of Records—they will make something better out of all of this than has been, I think. But I thought… I came to understand something." He paused a moment, paced a little one way and then the other, 'til Peloren asked:  
  
"What was it?"  
  
Elethil paused and stood there, head bowed, one hand wringing the other. Then he looked up, looked Peloren full in the face as he said:  
  
"I do not want everything to change."  
  
  
  


"Do you believe the measures your father has taken will make a difference?" 

"Mm?" Imrahil, who had been pondering Andrahar's reply, shook himself, then quickly shrugged. "'Tis hard to say. I hope so, for everyone's sake."

"So do I," Andrahar replied, staring at the smoke rising above the little tongues of candlelight. Light blazed and it died, blazed and died, just as the sun rose and set each day forever—so the Haradrim held. Nothing truly new entered the world, but the world turned and as it did, souls struggled to make their way through it to the wisdom allotted them, that they might be worthy to rest in it at the end of their days. One had to  _find_  wisdom first, though, a tricky, painful task without guarantee, and some days, Andrahar wondered whether it lay in no longer looking…

"Andra?" Imrahil's voice pierced reflection, and he blinked the bright afterglow from his eyes as he glanced over at his friend. Imrahil was looking at him with that earnest, anxious expression that Andrahar knew too well presaged an apology. Sure enough: "We never did get to talk the other night, before everything slid into the sea, as it were. But I wanted to say, I truly did not mean to put you in so— _low_  a place when I asked you what passed between you and Elethil and Peloren."

Andrahar grimaced slightly. "I know you did not," he replied, pausing a moment, debating whether he ought to explain, or what to say. Eventually, though, he simply shook his head. "Forget it, Imri. You may not have intended any insult, but I did that night—'tis I who owe an apology, not you. And you have it—whatever will amend the wrong, you have only to command it."

 

  
  
  
  
Peloren stared at his friend, confused. "I do not understand," he said at length, brow furrowing. For surely change was what they had desired, even if they had hardly dared hope for it! "Elya, you cannot  _want_  matters to go on as they had!"  
  
"No. It's not quite that way. I—'tis  _good_ , what Prince Adrahil did today," Elethil said, insistently. "But it felt terrible, like a fist round my chest—like I could not breathe, Pel."  
  
Peloren frowned. "But why?"  
  
"Because," Elethil replied, lowering his eyes. "I think I had been hoping… if nothing changed…" He stopped, though hands still moved, seeming to seek a way past the silence in their urgent, eloquent gesturing. Peloren had forcibly to still the impulse to press him then, sensing that his friend was trying to explain, and sensing, too, that to speak now might upset that effort, might undo whatever it was in him that struggled so against the hard habit of silence. "If nothing changed, then… then if I chose not to continue or to leave, no one would question the choice." He paused, and then all of a sudden blurted out, "Especially not me."   
  
"But Elya," Peloren protested softly, "you have  _wanted_  this so…"  
  
At that, Elethil drew a deep breath and he raised his eyes once more to fix them upon Peloren's face. "Well, that is the thing about longing, isn't it?" he said. "There is always some price for it—like Beren and Lúthien. I do  _want_  to be a Swan Knight, Pel, it's not that I don't, but I don't know… it's not only things that have to change, we have to, and… I don't know if I can." He laughed a little, suddenly. "You see?" he said, unhappily, once more looking away, and he sank down wearily again to sit upon his bed. "Coward after all!"  
  
Peloren was silent for a long moment, turning this confession over in his mind, running it this way and that. At last, though, he leaned forward and took one of Elethil's hands in his, and pressed firmly. "You know," he said quietly, "that if you leave so late, the Prince will want to know why."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Are you sure about this, Elya?"  
  
"Yes. And no. I don't know!"   
  
"What will you do?" Peloren asked.   
  
Elethil shrugged heavily. "'Tis hard to say. Or no, I mean…" He paused to breathe again, and he grew very still of a sudden. "I think I know the way. But how to do it…?" After a moment, he glanced up and gave Peloren a slight, sad smile. "I shall have to wait for a time, I think. Wait, and hope for courage!"  
  
  
  


"I have only to command you, do I?" Imrahil said, and chortled of a sudden. "You should be warier in your oaths, Andra!" the Heir exclaimed fondly. 

"Should I?" 

Imrahil nodded sagely. "After all," he said, leaning forward to whisper in a conspiratorial voice, "I might take unscrupulous advantage!"

At that, Andrahar sighed. "All right," he conceded, "I deserved that!"

"You truly did," Imrahil replied, but smiled broadly, affection and mirth gleaming in grey eyes. And he scrambled to his feet then, holding out a hand. "Come on! You might as well give up—you know you cannot sit like that for very much longer, and there is nothing to hold you here."

Which was true, but Andrahar hesitated. For despite the death of whatever pious feeling he might once have possessed, there remained still the vague conviction that he was yet claimed by cradle creeds in a way that only time would reveal. And in Harad, one never left a lit altar without a prayer…

So he said one, in honor of them all—Peloren, Elethil, Imrahil, himself, everyone and the filth they had lived with for a long two years and mayhap more—and finished it out, as was tradition: "Bless us, that we may come here no more!" And he blew out the candles. 

As he took Imrahil's hand, and let his friend help pull him to his feet, the other smiled again, and draped an arm about his shoulders, and said, "It  _will_  turn out well, Andra. You'll see!"

In response, Andrahar shook his head, but slipped his good arm about Imrahil's waist, daring to press him close just a moment, ere he released him. And: 

"Aye, I suppose we shall," he replied.


	13. Epilogue: In the Service of the Swan-lord

April 2980

The docks of Dol Amroth were often busy: the city rarely lacked for visitors come spring, as merchants of all stripes sought access to the markets of Gondor's preeminent port. But the weather had not yet turned—not quite. Few were so bold as to dare the long leagues of a sea journey yet. The quays were thus relatively quiet, with but few men upon them: mostly dockhands repairing the wharf, and though the air rang with their industry, it was not yet the bustling commotion of trading season. 

Nevertheless, safely out of the way of the dock-workers there stood a trio of figures: a man, a woman, and a little girl who, bored by the soft chatter of the adults, had plopped herself down at their feet to play with her rag-doll, recently become the dread pirate queen Roskandel of Umbar. 

"Might it really be today, do you think?" the woman asked her companion. 

"So we heard—today, if nothing goes amiss between Pelargir and Dol Amroth," the man replied, and then added quickly, "And to hear the weather-wise talk of it, despite the season, there's naught to tell of trouble on the wind."

"I hope not," she said anxiously, eyes fixed upon the southern horizon, whence any ship out of Pelargir should come. "But do you really believe—?" She sighed and stopped herself, shaking her head as she darted an apologetic look at him. "Here I am going on, asking you such questions! Every time he's away like this, I'm like to lose my wits and natter! Me!" Her disgusted tone made it abundantly clear that this was a failing of the first order.

Her companion smiled gently and reached over to pat her arm. "For my part," he assured her, "I have never known you to natter."

The woman shook her head once more, but said only, as she took up her vigil again, "I only hope he's well…"

"So do we all," the other murmured.

For a time, they did not speak, just watched the seas and listened absently to the girl's chatter as she played, happily oblivious to the concern of the grown-ups. But:

"Mammy?" she asked eventually.

"Aye, Calya, what is it?"

"He coming yet?"

"I don't know, sweeting."

"You said he was coming today!" the little girl said plaintively, and her mother laid a hand atop her head, stroking soothingly. 

"I said he might come today, sweeting. We don't know yet," she replied. "Why don't you play with Roskandel some more?"

"Don't wanna," Calya replied, a sulk clearly threatening. 

"Why do you call her 'Roskandel?'" her mother's companion asked, attempting preemption. Calya gave him a disdainful look.

"Because," she said, in a tone that suggested it ought to be obvious, "she's from Umbar."

"Mmm, is she? Do you know what her name means in Haradric?"

This gave Calya pause, and she glanced uncertainly up at her mother a moment before she replied, "Yes!" And when the other simply made a noise in the back of his throat and nodded, she asked, suspiciously, "Do you?"

"Well, I am sure you know better."

"You know something!" Calya declared upon hearing this.

"Do I?"

"Yes!"

"You think so?"

"Aye! Tell me!" came the by now eager command, and Calya's mother gave her companion a grateful look. Soon enough, her friend was expounding on possible meanings of possible words, squatting to draw pictures of Haradric letters in the dirt with a dagger, and acceding to ever increasing demands for explanations as fascination set in. "Roskandel," it seemed, was nonsense of the most fertile sort.

But after a time, a cry went up from a lookout: "Ships ahoy! Ships comin' in!" 

At that, all eyes turned squinting to the south, as with bated breath everyone scanned the horizon. Whoever had cried out had either eagle eyes or a spyglass, for it was some time before a second voice confirmed the sighting. "Aye, right up from Pelargir, lads! More than one—and flying our colors. Let's get those docks clear!"

"Have they come, do you think?" the woman asked hopefully.

"We shall see," her companion replied, scooping up Calya and Roskandel. "Let us go and wait a little further down..."

And so they hurried south, where the lead ships ought to put into berth, excusing themselves occasionally to dock-workers and the like. By the time they arrived, the sighting had been confirmed yet again, and counts were beginning to come in: first five ships, then ten, and now it looked to be thirteen. 

"Two short," the man murmured under his breath, and frowned. The woman put her hands over her mouth and closed her eyes a moment. 

"It has to be them, though," she said fiercely. "So many in this season? Can't be any others!"

"No, indeed."

And so they waited, hope giving way to anticipation of another sort. Time slid slowly by, with Calya growing ever more impatient and restless as the tension in the air waxed. "Which one? Where is he?" she demanded at last, as the great warships loomed over the docks, and was answered, after a few more moments:

"There—Prince Galador. This way!" So they ran, making for a berth about ten slips farther down the dock, where men were assembling to receive the ship. There, Calya was deposited once more upon the ground, though her mother made haste to grab her when the girl made to dash out onto the pier. 

"No, love, stay with me here," she murmured, kneeling to embrace the girl and hold her close as the three of them waited, rigid with anticipation, watching as ropes were thrown and orders shouted as the ship was gentled into the berth.

"Here they come," her companion murmured, as the gangplank was thrown down and blue-clad forms began to descend…

 

Prince Galador's deck was awash with blue tabards. It was no surprise—after so long a voyage, and on rough seas nearly all the way, no one wanted to remain below-decks. Especially not so close to home, Peloren thought, as he sat with his back to one of the rails, his sea-bag between up-raised knees in a effort to make himself as small as he could, so as not to be in the way of the sailors or anyone else. Space was limited, despite the fact that Prince Galador was rightly considered spacious for a warship—certainly, she was larger than any of the coastguard ships Peloren had served on in the past four years since his elevation to knighthood.

Still, that did not make her comfortable, and Peloren would be glad to get back to the sort of duty he knew best—on land, preferably on a horse's back. He did not deny the usefulness of making Swan Knights a part of the coastguard's complement, thus freeing up marines to man those ships that had farther to fare, and it did enable them to discharge their duty by the people of Belfalas. And he had definitely learned something about how to transport horses by ship that he might otherwise not have known, but he was quite certain that he had never been meant to be a sailor or a marine. It had been a vaguely queasy journey all the way down to Umbar and back, and he was looking forward to being able to relish the thought of eating again. 

But it was worth it, Peloren thought, and felt a sort of visceral, vengeful satisfaction wash through his afflicted intestines. Four years since he had become a knight—four years since Calardin, where, in a sense, it had all begun, and in those four years, he had seen more than enough pirates to last him a lifetime. For if Calardin were singular in that the Corsairs had actually made landfall north of Dol Amroth, it had been only the beginning of the terrorizing of the coasts that had led to redoubling the coastguard, to say nothing of establishing more and more far-flung garrisons as lords in Belfalas and beyond it begged for Dol Amroth's help in protecting their people. 

And the Prince had granted it, where he could, even as the tale of Calardin made its way speedily north, to the council halls of Minas Tirith, where it had touched off a firestorm that season, pitting the Captain-General against Captain Thorongil. There had even been a few requests from the Steward for an account of the matter from Peloren and Andrahar, Imrahil and Ornendil, and for a time, rumor had gone around that the council might even wish to speak with them in person. Happily, that had not come to pass, and even Andrahar had shown signs of being relieved about that reprieve. But ever since, the argument had been annual and hotly contested, pursued relentlessly by partisans on either side, and while Peloren knew which side he preferred to support, the upheaval in Gondor's highest court left him both shocked and somewhat dismayed. 

But all things came to an end, eventually, and the news that Captain Thorongil had finally succeeded in convincing the Steward and council to accept his plan, despite its risks, had been received most eagerly among Dol Amroth's beleaguered forces. And given what they had faced, that they had come home from the raid on Hurrhabi's shipyards and harbor having lost so few ships—only two from Dol Amroth's contribution of fifteen—was a stroke of pure good fortune as well as a tribute to those who had planned the whole affair. And we ought to be free of Corsairs for a good long while, Peloren thought with satisfaction…

A shadow fell across him, and he looked up just as another sea-bag was dropped beside him. "Thought I saw you here," Aldan said, and sat down next to him. 

"I needed some air," Peloren replied. 

"Stomach?"

"This swan does not sail," Peloren informed him, and wrinkled his nose when Aldan only chuckled. 

"Be glad you are not Andrahar, then," Aldan advised.

"Oh I am—haven't envied him a bit for some time now!"

"Our lieutenant's right pleased, though. Like a cat in the cream," Aldan drawled, raising his voice a little, and Peloren looked up to see Imrahil approaching, looking verily like a cat licking its whiskers. And just behind him, followed Andrahar, constant as a star in its path, though he glowered rather than glowed.

As Peloren and Aldan started to rise, Imrahil waved a hand. "No need to stand on ceremony—or at all, Pel," Imrahil said, quickly reaching out to steady Peloren when the deck tilted a bit. 

"My thanks," Peloren grunted, sitting back down heavily. "Valar, are we near to docking yet?" he demanded. 

This time it was Imrahil's turn to chuckle. "You're worse than Andra, Pel, you know that?" the Heir asked, grinning.

"Course I'm worse," Peloren retorted. "I've been swallowing bile the past few weeks! Which," he added, giving Andrahar a baleful look, "is hardly fair. You don't even like to swim."

"You haven't thrown up," came the unsympathetic reply. 

"No," Peloren conceded. "But I tire of wishing I could! Fair seas are one thing, but this—!" 

"Have a heart, Andra! It has been a hard voyage," Imrahil admonished, and got a grunt and a shrug for his trouble. Rolling his eyes slightly, the Heir said, in a false whisper: "You'll have to excuse him. He's always like this aboard ships."

"And you still want to put him on one?" Aldan asked, sceptically. But then he added, "I suppose there's little doubt, my lord, that your father will get a favorable report of you from the commander, and maybe even Captain Thorongil, if he sent word."

"Aye," Peloren chimed in. "'Twas well done, Imri, getting Captain Thorongil and us out of Hurrhabi, even if it does mean we'll be needing another lieutenant again." For Imrahil had risen swiftly to command—men of his rank often did, but he had been helped along by the death in battle two years ago of the lieutenant in command of Peloren's and Aldan's separate squads. Yet despite this advance, he had continued to yearn for the sea and a chance to captain a ship. 

The Prince had been reluctant to grant that wish—no doubt Adrahil could all too easily envision the havoc his son could wreak unfettered upon the ocean—but Imrahil had persisted in his pleas. He had also successfully integrated his Swan Knights into marine companies more swiftly and with far fewer difficulties than other commanders, and shown himself still to be apt and a willing hand on deck—something which pleased the captains of the ships he served upon. 

Therefore, at last, Adrahil had compromised: if Imrahil returned from this venture with a good report from his captain, then Adrahil would see him to command at sea. Hence the Heir's current elation. For given that Imrahil had not only taken over command of Prince Galador when her captain had been killed and first mate badly wounded, but had, at great peril, rescued Captain Thorongil's party from the quays and got everyone safely out of port and back into the Gondorian line of battle, it hardly seemed likely Imrahil would receive anything but the highest praise for his actions. Which meant he would almost certainly be putting out to sea as captain of his own ship in the next year.

And so of course, he would be taking Andrahar with him as part of the escort due him as his father's heir, which no doubt contributed to the Southron's rather more dour than usual mood. 

Imrahil, however, could manage cheer enough for two men, fortunately, and he grinned broadly at their words. "My thanks, though who would have done otherwise? I do hope though that Father will agree with you—I think he shall. And if he does, of course, I'd happily release Andra to duty on the shore—"

"You would not, and even if you would, your father has better sense," Andrahar growlingly interrupted. "Besides," he added fiercely, glaring at his lord, "I'd not allow it."

Imrahil only laughed again, and clapped a hand upon Andrahar's shoulder, with the other giving him a friendly jab in the arm ere moving to a swift, light embrace. "I know, and you are right, on all counts—forgive me, Andra?"

Andrahar, for his part, stared unhappily up at his young lord, who gazed down upon him with that deadly combination of mirth and affection and ridiculous (serious) pleading, and Peloren didn't even make it to the count of three before Andrahar gave in. He sighed heavily, still evidently disgruntled at the prospect of a career at sea. Nevertheless:

"Aye, my lord," he replied simply. "Always." And there was no doubting his sincerity, not when his expression softened as it did, though he was quick to mask it after but a moment.

Imrahil gave him a beatific smile in return, then glanced over his head, and said: "We're coming up fast on shore."

At that, Peloren and Aldan rose, and the four of them squeezed in at the railing between others who were gathering to watch and await docking. Dol Amroth's towers loomed over the bay, and in the early spring sunshine, seemed to gleam. Excitement began to build, and as more and more men joined them, the railing grew crowded indeed. 

"Shouldn't you be overseeing our arrival?" Peloren asked Imrahil in an undertone, but got a shake of the head.

"I surrendered the watch to Commander Helparin an hour ago. He may be walking wounded, but between himself and the second mate, they make a whole man, so he shall sail his ship home, as is proper," the Heir replied, seeming well satisfied. "Which makes me once more but a lieutenant of the Swan Knights." Peloren made a soft noise of absent-minded acknowledgment, but assured nothing was amiss, otherwise paid Imrahil no mind, intent upon watching the shore. 

Behind him, sailors scrambled, trimming sail and readying ropes, as the helmsman started to angle them toward the berth that matched their place in the line of battle. At length, chain rattled and screeched, and there came a splash to aft. Peloren clenched his teeth as the ship shuddered and lurched a bit when the anchor grated upon the seabed. 

"Clear the way—stand clear of the gangway!" the third mate ordered, and there was a ripple in the ranks of the Swan Knights as men obediently made way. 

After what seemed an interminable time, the ship came to a halt, or at least, slowed enough Peloren could not tell the difference, and lines were tossed down, shouts going back and forth between the sailors on deck and the dock-workers, some of whom were struggling to get the gangplank into place. 

Almost as soon as they had done so, bodies began to stream off the ship—officers not of the deck crew first, as was required, but Imrahil, who might have gone first of the assorted lieutenants, nevertheless hung back until all others had preceded him. Then: "Come on!" he beckoned his friends, and led the way down, Andrahar but a step behind him, and Peloren following eagerly.

He staggered a bit as he stepped off the plank, struggling, as he usually did, against rubbery knees after a stay upon the sea, and he felt Aldan grab him. "Thanks," he muttered, as he breathed in deeply, feeling, despite a slight sense of being off-balance, a great relief. 

Aldan began to reply, but was cut off by a young voice screaming ecstatically: "Papa! Papa!" 

"Caliel!" Aldan's face lit up, and he abandoned Peloren in an instant, cutting across the paths of a few other knights, who looked on with tolerant amusement as he stooped and swept his daughter up into his arms, swinging her about before settling her on his hip with a kiss. "There's my lass!" he exclaimed, grinning, and then he grunted as he shifted her a bit. "Ach, you're getting heavy! Where's your mother?"

"Here, love!" Naleth called, as she threaded her way forward in Caliel's wake, escorted by another familiar face.

"Elya!" Peloren cried, and Elethil raised his hand, waving a greeting, though he waited 'til he had seen Naleth to her husband's side before he moved to join Peloren.

"Pel," he replied, holding out his hands, and the two of them clasped arms, then Peloren pulled his friend into a brief, crushing embrace. And: "You're all right," Elethil sighed into his ear, relieved. "Everyone is all right."

"More or less, aye," Peloren replied as he drew back. Then he frowned slightly, and asked, "How came you here?"

"Pelargir sent word to the Prince as soon as the fleet put into harbor," Elethil replied. "We received it just the other day, and with clear sailing, we thought you might be here this afternoon." He shrugged, then smiled. "I had part of the day to myself, so I thought I should bring Naleth and Caliel, just in case." Then: "How did it go?" he asked, anxiously, looking from Peloren to Imrahil and Andrahar. "My lord?"

"Honestly, Elethil, you can call me 'Imri'," Imrahil said, shaking his head, though he grinned as he said it. "Just because you are now on Father's staff does not mean you cannot!"

"Well," Elethil replied modestly, "I should practice—you know how careful the Haradrim are about such things, and I should not like to forget in their presence!"

This garnered him some stares. Aldan, frowning, said, "I thought you more or less knew the Haradrim in South Docks by now—after four years, surely they do not mind a slip so much! They tolerate it from the rest of us, it seems, or I have rarely heard any complaint in all the years I've lived there."

"Oh, aye, we know each other now," Elethil assured him, a slow, pleased smile spreading over his face, as his companions digested this. It was Imrahil who first understood, and then he moved to grip Elethil's shoulders tightly, as he exclaimed:

"Do not tell me you will be going to Harad, Elya!"

"Aye."

"And with the Dol Amroth contingent? With Lord Denethor?" 

And when Elethil nodded, the Heir gave a whoop! of delight and embraced him, as the others crowded around close. There was a brief, joyous huddle, and much slapping of backs and arms and congratulations. Naleth even stood on her toes to give Elethil a kiss on the cheek and a loud scolding for not having told her all that afternoon. Caliel declared that Roskandel would welcome him, at least, which garnered much laughter.

When, at length, Elethil emerged from all of it, much buffeted and touseled from the attention, he was blushing furiously, though also clearly pleased. Imrahil shook his head and draped an arm about him, declaring: "'Tis well-deserved, after all your efforts! Not that I envy you my brother-in-law's company, or the task of helping him clean up after the mess we made in Umbar, but nevertheless!" He smiled broadly. "'Tis all in the hands of the ambassadors, now—we have done our part. See to it we haven't got to do it again for a bit!"

"Thank you. I shall try to, though 'tis hard even for me to believe I am going," Elethil admitted. "Who would have imagined it, after all?" At which, Andrahar grunted, shook his head. 

"I'll say I never would have," he replied. But he lifted his chin, and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes as he wished him: "Sa doshtir!"

"Lhaliva bhredina mhur." Elethil paused, then glanced at his friends, and lowered his voice to ask: "Speaking of cleaning up, though, is it true? Captain Thorongil did not come back with you, but only sent a letter?"

At that, everyone did sober a bit. Peloren said nothing, deferring to Imrahil, who at least knew the man somewhat. "Aye, 'tis true," Imrahil replied. 

"What happened?" 

"'Tis a strange bit of business," the Heir replied, and then glancing around at the throng of uniforms, came to a decision. "Why do we not meet again for supper?" he suggested. "Somewhere quiet—we can talk then, and give each other all the news…"

This suggestion was received enthusiastically by all, and as sea-bags were hoisted and they began the trek back up into the City, Peloren looked about at his companions. At Imrahil, poised upon the brink of his own command at last, yet shamelessly spinning yarns of their journey for the amusement of his friends; at Aldan with Caliel in one arm and the other snug about his wife's waist; Andrahar, intent as always but no more such a stranger as once he had been; and at Elethil…

At Elethil, who had never stood to receive his white belt, who, in a painful decision, had put away his sword and given up his place among the esquires, only to come into his own at long last in the unlikeliest way imaginable, given all his troubles with Haradrim. Suddenly Peloren was reminded once more of standing before Adrahil with his peers four years ago, all of them newly knighted, listening to the Prince's concluding speech.

"My lords and ladies," the Prince had said that sunlit morning; "Gentlemen, goodwives, honored guests. We called you here to witness the oath-taking of these, your sons, brothers, husbands, and dear friends. It is a solemn duty that they have taken up—the duty of a knight of Gondor, of a Swan Knight of Dol Amroth. They have struggled, they have suffered, they have been tested in body and in mind and in spirit—more so, perhaps, this year than any other I have known."

Adrahil had paused then, and his gaze had weighed upon the new-made knights they all had been, as he had continued, solemnly: "Not all of those who began this journey have ended it with us today. Nor shall it be the last time that loss must be endured. Therefore, on this day, we remember our brothers, who have gone before us in death, or who have gone beyond us to other duties, other joys and griefs. We wish them well, and pray that all may abide in that courage that enables men to face loss in the hope that they shall pass through it, and emerge a little wiser, and in the conviction that righteousness shall prevail. For from loss there is no escape, but if there is to be hope for the future, then there shall be need of such valor in the days to come."

It had been hard that day, four years ago, to believe either that they had finally come through that most trying of years, or that hope should prevail. Everything had seemed so very uncertain then, and missing Elethil at his side, struck with a sense of the perversity of fate, he had felt bereft—not at all triumphant or accomplished, but simply exhausted, disheartened, and the more so for the hope that had grown up in him after the Prince's judgment upon them all that had seemed so promising where his friend had been concerned. 

It had been a long journey from that day, when it had seemed impossible to hope for anything. True, the Dark Lord had not been overthrown, and war would be with them still for many a year, as far as any could see. Nevertheless, slowly, the world had seemed to right itself. He had settled into his company and the duties attendant upon it. Elethil, seeking to make himself more than merely a serviceable scribe to the Prince of Dol Amroth, had begun to find his feet among the Haradrim of Dol Amroth, into whose midst he made at first tentative, then increasingly less fearful forays. The upheaval in the ranks of the Swan Knights that had come of the Prince's judgment had slowly begun to settle. 

Thus today, fresh from victory at Hurrhabi, and against all odds finding himself among companions who, if still not friends in some cases, were, in any events, something more important perhaps, Peloren could taste it sharp upon his tongue: the startling taste of conviction: 

Aye, we are well, and we will be well—there's hope for us yet, Valar be praised! 

"Pel?" Peloren blinked, and saw Elethil looking quizzically at him. "What is it?" his friend asked, seeming on the one hand perplexed, on the other amused, but in any case not anxious. Indeed, the good news out and assured his friends were well after their risky venture South, his manner was easier than Peloren had ever known it to be—this despite the enormity of the task still ahead of him. He was struck then by the realization that his dearest friend, after living so long in doubt and fear, after anxious, arduous years of attempting to find himself in Adrahil's service, was flourishing at last! It was at that point, too, that he realized he was grinning like an idiot. 

"I'll tell you later," he promised, draping an arm about Elethil's shoulders. "For now—'tis a day to celebrate, Elya! For we've come home—we all came home, just as we wanted."

Elethil cocked his head, and perhaps, being his friend, he heard more in that than the words might say of themselves. For after a moment, he nodded slowly, and Peloren felt his hand press upon his back, as Elethil replied, in a low, glad, and grateful voice: 

"Aye, we finally did!"

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prince Galador is named after the first ruling prince of Dol Amroth. 
> 
> I'd like to reiterate my thanks to three people in particular: this Tolkien fanfic could not have come to be without the assistance of Altariel, Isabeau, and Lyllyn. Altariel and Isabeau graciously read chapter drafts, enduring both the flurries of activity and the long periods of silence since I first began writing this story in the summer of 2006. Thank you for your suggestions and for sticking with me through a general rewrite after nine rather lengthy chapters had already been drafted. 
> 
> Isabeau, of course, generously furnished me with many a character from out of her stories and permission to do with them as I would: Andrahar, Peloren, Elethil, all of the masters, Kendrion, Olwen, and Tarondor are her creations and I've tried not to break them (too badly). Beyond that, she put up with me writing a story that overlapped with one of her WiPs, which made for interesting challenges to continuity. Story lines in the work sometimes contradicted each other, and had to bend to accommodate each other, sometimes did so even retroactively. Many thanks for your patience and good humor throughout, Isabeau!
> 
> Last but not least, I would like to thank Lyllyn, who took time out of her busy schedule to beta-read a couple of chapters and who kept me from going too far wrong when it came to things medical. 
> 
> Finally, thank you to the several readers who have encouraged me with notes and feedback and questions—it has been great fun! A special note of thanks to Denise, for pointing out a continuity error early on that neither Isabeau nor I caught, but which we shall work out. I hope all of you have enjoyed the story.


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